


Her Heart's Apocalypse

by enigmaticblue



Series: R.B. Banner [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Feels, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Female Bruce Banner, Genderswap, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>R. B. Banner remains a mystery that no one can quite grasp, at least not until she meets Tony Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Heart's Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Green Day song, “Extraordinary Girl”. Originally, I was writing this for the trope_bingo “genderswap” prompt, but then it took me a year to finish (OMG), and here we are. So, I mostly wrote it just to see if I could. It was an interesting exercise, that’s for sure.
> 
> Please note that this is always-a-girl!Bruce, not a trans character. Some transphobic and homophobic language is used, and there's an attempted sexual assault that is incomplete and not graphic. And Brian Banner remains an alcoholic dickwad, so there is some child abuse and domestic assault. I think I've tagged everything and have issued warnings, but if I missed anything, I apologize. Let me know and I'll fix that. 
> 
> If you're at all concerned and need more details, let me know and I'd be happy to help you out.
> 
> Oh, and I'm pretty much completely ignoring Age of Ultron for a variety of reasons.

**1.**

 

When she’s four, her father hits her for the first time, a casual backhand that only stings her cheek, but produces a much deeper wound in her heart. She’d been trying to show him the plant she’d grown for the kindergarten science project, and she’d won first place for having the largest, healthiest plant.

 

Half the class had presented dead plants, because they hadn’t remembered to water them, but she had nurtured hers with everything in her.

 

The plant goes flying when he hits her, dirt spilling over the carpet, and her father yells for her mother to clean it up. He’s busy, can’t they see, and he doesn’t want to be interrupted.

 

Mom cleans up the mess first, and then joins her in her bedroom with the remains of the plant. The main stem is broken, and her beautiful plant that she’d worked so hard on is dying.

 

That hurts worse than her face, which is starting to swell.

 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. “He’s just busy. You probably shouldn’t bother him if you can help it.”

 

She wants to bother him; she wants to prove her worth, but she nods. She’s seen the bruises on her mom’s face, too, and maybe it wouldn’t be her bearing the brunt of her father’s displeasure, but her mom.

 

“I’ll get you some ice,” her mom says. “You can stay home from school tomorrow.”

 

Mom says it like it’s a boon, but school is a place to escape from the tension in the house that rises up thick to choke her on a daily basis.

 

She has had no problem overhearing her father’s yelling, that he wanted a son, that a daughter is useless and stupid, that it was her mom’s fault for not being able to provide a boy.

 

“I’d rather go to school,” she replies. “I’ll tell them I ran into a wall.”

 

It’s the first lie she tells. It won’t be the last.

 

 

No one, other than her father, calls her Roberta. At school, she’s Bobbi to her teachers and the other kids. Her mom calls her by her middle name when her dad’s not around to hear.

 

She answers to all of them—Roberta, when her father yells, Bobbi at school, and Blythe when her mom whispers it softly. All of the names seem ill fitting, though. She hates her name in her father’s mouth, doesn’t really feel as though Bobbi fits, and when she looks up “blithe” in the dictionary, she knows that she’s anything _but_ that.

 

She is not indifferent, or cheerful, or happy, or joyous. She doesn’t know why her parents would have chosen Blythe as her middle name, or why her mom would choose that name before any of the others.

 

It feels like a futile wish. She doubts her father had chosen it, and thinks it must have been her mother.

 

“Why would you name me that?” she asks her mom when she’s seven, just a few months before her mom takes up permanent residence six feet below the soil.

 

Her mom runs a hand over her long, brown hair. “Because your dad chose your first name before you were born, when he thought we were having a boy, and I wanted to give you something. I want you to have joy in your life, sweetheart.”

 

She swallows and doesn’t reply, because she knows that what she wants to say—that it’s not working out so well for her so far—would only hurt. Her mom gets hurt often enough that she doesn’t need to add to it.

 

She thinks about that conversation a lot over the next few months as her dad seems to get angrier and angrier. Her mom feeds her dinner early, long before her dad comes home, and then sends her to her room.

 

She reads physics textbooks that her mom smuggles in and does extra credit work in the faint hope that her dad will see her grades and actually think she’s worth something. When she hears shouting, she turns off the light in her bedroom and crawls under the bed to hide.

 

The night everything changes, her dad comes home early, and she can’t help but think later that it’s _her_ fault. After all, it’s _her_ presence that her father seems to find so objectionable, and _she’s_ the one her mom tries to protect.

 

If she had just been born a boy, none of this would have ever happened. (Later, when she understands more about biology and psychology, and her dad’s particular illness, she’ll know better, but that never erases the sick sense of guilt, of the belief _it must be my fault for existing while female_ , even if she doesn’t or can’t put a name to it _._ )

 

She’s just finished eating, and is helping her mom clean up the kitchen when the door slams open.

 

Her mom looks alarmed. “I didn’t think he was coming home so early.”

 

“Mom?” she asks, uncertain of what to do.

 

“Where are you?” her dad shouts, and he’s obviously drunk already. “Rebecca!”

 

“We’re in the kitchen,” her mom calls.

 

It makes sense to not hide, since her dad just gets angrier when he can’t find them right away.

 

“What is _she_ doing here?” her dad demands, catching sight of her, and she realizes that it’s been months since she’s really seen him.

 

“She’s your daughter, Brian,” her mom says. “You could treat her a little better.”

 

“She’s worthless,” Brian snarls. “Why you couldn’t have given me a son—”

 

Her mom frowns. “Don’t talk to her like that! Blythe, go to your room.”

 

“Blythe? That’s what you’re calling her?” her dad demands, grabbing her arm and jerking her out from behind the dubious safety of her mom’s body.

 

She feels something in her arm snap, and can’t help the scream of pain she lets out.

 

“Brian!” her mom shouts and throws herself at her dad.

 

He releases her to strike her mom, and Mom shouts, “Run! Run now!”

 

Her arm throbs, and she stumbles back. Her father makes a grab for her, and she clutches her arm and bolts for the front door, which isn’t the nearest exit, but is at least not blocked by her father. She hears a scream behind her and fumbles with the doorknob. Her heart is in her throat as she manages to get the door open, and she runs to the Carltons’ house, which is just next door.

 

Mrs. Carlton has always been nice, and she rings the doorbell frantically. When the door swings open to reveal Mr. Carlton, she stumbles back a couple of steps.

 

“Bobbi?” he says. “Are you okay?”

 

“My—my mom,” she manages to stutter. “My dad is—she said to run.”

 

“Andrea! Call 911!” Mr. Carlton shouts. “Come inside, Bobbi. Sit down. Are you hurt?”

 

“My arm,” she admits, feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. “I don’t—I don’t feel so good.”

 

Mr. Carlton’s blue eyes are kind and he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Come sit down, kiddo. We’re going to make sure you’re okay.”

 

Everything is a blur after that. Mr. Carlton finds ice for her arm, and there are sirens, and ambulances, and paramedics who put her on a stretcher and whisk her away to the hospital.

 

She doesn’t see her mom, and even though she keeps asking for her, no one will tell her where her mom is, or what had happened after she’d fled.

 

Finally, a woman in jeans, a crisp white shirt, and red blazer enters the hospital room. The doctor had given her something for the pain, and she’s anxious and sleepy almost in equal measure.

 

“Where’s my mom?” she demands.

 

“Roberta—”

 

“Blythe,” she insists. “My mom calls me Blythe.”

 

The woman nods. “Blythe, then. My name is Amy, and I’m from social services. Your mom—your mom didn’t make it. The police have taken your dad into custody.” She pauses. “That means they arrested him.”

 

“I know what it means,” she says, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. “You’re sure about my mom? Maybe she’s just asleep.”

 

“I’m sure,” Amy says very gently. “I’m so very sorry, Blythe. Is there anybody I can call for you?”

 

“My aunt,” she says. “Susan Walters. I don’t know her phone number.”

 

“That’s okay,” Amy assures her. “I can find it. The doctors want to keep you here overnight, okay?”

 

She’s pretty sure she doesn’t have an option, so she says, “Okay.”

 

Amy leaves, and Blythe closes her eyes, but all she can see is her mom’s anguished expression, and her dad’s look of rage, and she hears her mom screaming over and over.

 

Suddenly, Mrs. Carlton pokes her head into the room. “Hello, Bobbi.”

 

“Blythe,” she insists. The name might be stupid and wrong, but that’s what her mom had called her, and her dad had chosen her first name. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him, doesn’t want to have any piece of him tainting her. She might not be able to get rid of her last name, but she can choose her mother’s wish for her, even if it never comes true.

 

“That’s what your mom called you,” Mrs. Carlton says softly. “I should have remembered.”

 

Blythe shrugs. “It’s okay.”

 

“We want you to come stay with us until your aunt gets here,” Mrs. Carlton says. “They want to keep you overnight for observation, but I’ll stay with you in the meantime. I’m so sorry about your mom. She was a wonderful woman.”

 

The kindness undoes her, and Blythe begins to cry, quietly at first, and then in great, gulping sobs. Mrs. Carlton sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her into a hug.

 

It’s not her mom, but Blythe takes some comfort in her embrace.

 

~~~~~

 

She only stays with the Carltons one night after she’s released from the hospital. She sleeps in their guest bedroom, in a large bed with scented sheets. Blythe knows, from the pictures on the walls, and the things her mom and Mrs. Carlton had talked about, that they have a daughter, but that she’s off at college and never calls. There’s more to the story than that, of course, but they always stopped talking about the situation anytime she was nearby.

 

Mr. Carlton is the one to walk her back over to her house and help her pack her things when the police officers let them enter. He carefully shields her view of the kitchen with his body, and he’s brought a suitcase of his own that he tells her she can have.

 

Her dad always smelled of alcohol and breath mints, but Mr. Carlton smells sharp and crisp, like a forest, and his voice is always gentle, and he doesn’t touch her without asking permission, at least with his eyes.

 

Briefly, rebelliously, Blythe wonders if her life wouldn’t have been better with the Carltons, who are kind and generous and welcoming.

 

And then she stifles that thought mercilessly. There are no what-ifs. There is only the reality that her father killed her mother, and left her an orphan.

 

Later, much later, when she learns about string theory, she’ll remember those rebellious thoughts and let the scenario play out, right before she ruthlessly suppresses it again.

 

~~~~~

 

Blythe has met her Aunt Susan only once before, and she remembers the tension in the room, the way her father had so obviously resented his sister’s presence. She is a little afraid, because what if her aunt is more like her father than her mother?

 

But Aunt Susan catches the earliest possible flight, and drives straight to the Carltons’ residence, and she waits for Blythe to come to her after she kneels down so she’s at Blythe’s eye-level. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she says immediately.

 

Blythe hesitates, because her aunt does bear a passing resemblance to her dad, but she knows her mom doesn’t have any family, which is maybe why she had stayed with her dad right up until the bitter end. “I don’t—I’m sorry, too.”

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Susan says in a firm, no-nonsense tone that doesn’t brook any argument. “You did everything right, Roberta.”

 

“Blythe,” she insists, because that’s what her mom had wanted, and if she can’t actually _be_ that, she can wear the name proudly.

 

Aunt Susan smiles. “Well. That’s a beautiful name. I like it much better.”

 

And for that, as well as for the years of patience and care, her aunt earns her undying devotion.

 

**3.**

 

High school is less of a nightmare than Blythe expects. Her teachers love her because she does her homework and extra credit work and hands it in on time. She participates during class and tutors students who are struggling when asked.

 

And she joins Science Olympiad and helps lead her team to victory, making some really good friends in the process. She can be herself with them in a way that becomes impossible once she’s in college and enters academia.

 

It’s the first time in her life that Blythe feels like her name actually fits her.

 

Still, Blythe has absolutely no intention of going to prom, but Donna gets it into her head that the Science Olympiad team should all go together.

 

“Come on, it will be fun,” Donna wheedles.

 

Donna is a couple of years older than Blythe, and she’s smart, but not genius level. Donna is confident in a way that Blythe can’t match. She’d kind of taken Blythe under her wing when Blythe joined Science Olympiad, making sure she didn’t eat alone at lunch, telling off the kids who hassled her, and generally making Blythe’s life easier.

 

“But prom?” Blythe protests. “That seems a little prosaic.”

 

Donna shrugs. “You only live once, Blythe. We’ll get dolled up, wow our teammates, and probably leave early to eat pizza. Think of it as a rite of passage.”

 

“That we could totally avoid,” Blythe argues.

 

Donna tugs on Blythe’s ponytail. “You know your aunt is going to be on board.”

 

Blythe grimaces. Her aunt is always encouraging her to “embrace her femininity.” Blythe likes to think of herself as low maintenance, and she doesn’t see the point in putting a lot of effort into her appearance when she doesn’t expect it to make a difference in the things that really matter.

 

“Donna…” Blythe protests.

 

“Hey, Carson!” Donna calls, waving at their teammate over.

 

Carson plops down in the chair next to Donna. “Hello, ladies.”

 

Blythe snorts. Carson likes to think he’s smooth, but he’s all lanky limbs and no coordination, with a habit of tripping over his own feet.

 

“Prom,” Donna says. “The entire team goes as a group. We show the whole school what they’ve been missing, and then go eat pizza after.”

 

Carson grins. “Awesome.”

 

“You, too?” Blythe asks.

 

“Hey, I’ll bet you clean up nice, Banner,” Carson replies. “Besides, it’s our last chance at prom, and if we go as a group, it’ll be like we’re this awesome gang. No awkward dates, no weirdness, just us being fucking awesome.”

 

Blythe laughs. “You think pretty highly of yourself, Carson.”

 

“Of _us_ , Banner,” Carson replies. “Who brought us to victory in the state championship? Oh, that would be _you_.”

 

Blythe flushes. Carson might be an awkward mess, but he’s also kind of a cute awkward mess, and she’s been nursing a painful crush on him for the last two years. “It was a team effort.”

 

“So modest,” Carson teases. “But Donna is right. This is our last chance, and I am definitely on board.”

 

Donna grins triumphantly, as well she should. With Carson and Donna on board, the rest of the team will fall in line, which means that Blythe would be the only one not going.

 

And Blythe _likes_ her team members, loves the camaraderie she’s found with her fellow nerds, where even if she’s something of a freak, she feels like they’re all freaks together. “Yeah, okay,” Blythe agrees. “How bad can it be, right?”

 

Donna wraps an arm around Blythe’s shoulders, giving her a hug. And yeah, Blythe has a little bit of a crush on Donna, too. “You and I are going dress shopping this weekend,” Donna promises. “Clear it with your aunt.”

 

When Blythe goes home that afternoon, she fixes herself a snack and finishes the last of her homework. She’s been reading through some of the advanced physics textbooks in her spare time to make sure she’s ready to start college in the fall.

 

She’s halfway through a popular text on space-time and relativity when her aunt comes home. “Blythe? Did you have a good day?” Aunt Susan asks.

 

“Yeah, it was good,” Blythe replies. “I, um, have a favor to ask.”

 

Her aunt actually looks thrilled, probably because Blythe doesn’t ask for much besides school supplies and textbooks. “What can I do for you?”

 

“We’re—I mean the Science Olympiad team—it’s just, they all want to go to prom together as a group,” Blythe stammers out. “Donna wants to go dress shopping this weekend.”

 

As expected, Aunt Susan is excited. “Of course! You’ll need an appointment to get your hair done, too.”

 

“I don’t,” Blythe stammers out. “I mean, I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

 

“Blythe, you’re a beautiful girl,” Aunt Susan says, cupping her cheek. “And every girl deserves to feel special on her prom night, whether she has a date or is going with friends.”

 

Blythe has never really felt beautiful, but she’s not going to argue. “Okay.”

 

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Aunt Susan insists. “This is going to be a night to remember.”

 

~~~~~

 

Blythe is still none too sure about this plan when Donna arrives after lunch on Saturday to pick her up in her parents’ minivan. “It’s not much of a chariot, but it will get us to the mall,” she says as Blythe climbs in. “I take it your aunt is cool with this.”

 

Blythe shrugs. “She gave me cash, so I can’t go over $100 for the whole ensemble, whatever that means.”

 

Donna grins. “That means we’ll be looking for bargains. Luckily, you are with a master.”

 

The mall is bustling with people, and as Donna starts to pull dresses off the rack at JC Penneys, Blythe starts to get into the spirit of things. “You need jewel tones,” Donna says authoritatively. “Rich colors will complement you best. Oooh, purple!”

 

Donna has thick brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and freckles, and she tends to stick with more pastels, while loading Blythe down with deep purple, royal blue, forest green, and magenta.

 

Blythe is a little surprised when Donna insists they squeeze into the same dressing room together. “Come on, I’ve seen everything you’ve got,” she says, “and this is way easier. We don’t even have to leave the room.”

 

It’s cramped, and they keep jostling each other, but at the same time, it’s fun. Blythe gets a little thrill every time Donna zips up her dress, and Blythe gets to return the favor. She tries really hard not to look, but Donna is pretty in an understated way, and soft in all the right places. Unlike Blythe, she doesn’t seem to have any trouble embracing the fact that she’s a girl, and Blythe begins to find the joy in trying on pretty dresses, in having Donna look over her shoulder and meet her eyes in the mirror, and in finding the right dress—a deep purple satin with ruffles on each shoulder.

 

Blythe stares at her reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes shining—and feels Donna pull her hair tie out so that her dark, wavy hair falls around her shoulders. There’s a weird kink in it, and she really needs to brush it, but…

 

“There,” Donna says softly. “Gorgeous.”

 

Blythe turns to face her. Donna is still wearing the dress she’d decided on, a light blue satin dress that matches her eyes. “You too.”

 

Donna reaches out to squeeze her hands. “We’re going to have fun.”

 

And Blythe believes it.

 

~~~~~

 

By the night of the prom, Blythe has given into all of the suggestions Donna and her aunt make. She has her hair done that afternoon, although in a simpler style than a lot of girls will probably be sporting. Aunt Susan does Blythe’s makeup, doing something mysterious with eyeliner and mascara and eye shadow so that she hardly recognizes herself.

 

She looks like the best, prettiest version of herself, and while Blythe can’t foresee a time when she would put this kind of time in on a daily basis, she can’t argue with the results. She puts on her satin pumps, and slips her ID and a couple of twenties in the clutch Aunt Susan is letting her borrow, and then grins as Carson stumbles over his feet on the threshold when she opens the door.

 

“Here,” he says, thrusting out a plastic carton with a corsage that matches her dress. “The guys all drew straws to see who would get corsages for you guys, and then flipped a coin.”

 

“You lost?” Blythe says with a crooked smile.

 

“No, I’m pretty sure I won,” Carson says, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his white pants. He’s vaguely ridiculous in a white tux with a pale blue, ruffled shirt and white bow tie.

 

Ridiculous, but still kind of cute.

 

Donna and Tommy enter the house, and they all put up with her aunt’s demands for pictures. “You all look wonderful,” Aunt Susan says, sounding just a little choked up. “So grown up. Go on, and have fun. Blythe, if you decide to stay at someone’s house tonight, give me a call.”

 

“She’s staying with me,” Donna inserts. “It’s already been arranged.”

 

“Well, then, have fun, and be careful,” Aunt Susan says, kissing Blythe’s cheek.

 

They all pile into Donna’s van, and make a stop to pick up the other two members of their team who are going to prom. All the guys other than Carson had gone the traditional route of black tuxes with black bow ties.

 

When they park at the dance hall where the prom is being held, Blythe sees a long line of limos and plenty of cars. They might be the only group to arrive in a minivan, which is probably deeply uncool, but she can’t bring herself to care.

 

Blythe feels pretty and almost normal as she loops an arm through Carson’s, and Donna takes Tommy’s arm, and they walk in together as a team.

 

They dance together, and drink some of the really weak punch, and then they leave to eat pizza at their favorite spot. Donna and Blythe kick off their shoes, and the boys take off their jackets and undo their bow ties, and it’s good.

 

Blythe catches Carson looking at her with more interest than he’s ever shown before, and Donna is smiling at her in a soft way, and Blythe doesn’t know what it means.

 

In a few more months, she’ll be in college, and everybody keeps telling her that college will be better, but in this moment, right now, Blythe doesn’t see how that can be true.

 

She has a group of friends who share her interests, and she’s an integral member. Blythe has so rarely felt like she belongs anywhere that she’s not feeling very confident she’ll find it again.

 

“What are you guys doing tonight?” Tommy asks. “We’re going back over to Carson’s for video games.”

 

Donna shrugs. “Blythe and I are having a sleepover. No boys allowed.”

 

Carson offers a half-hearted leer. “Oh, yeah?”

 

“Don’t even go there,” Donna warns. “We’ll probably talk about our _periods_.”

 

The boys all feign gagging, which is typical, and has become something of an inside joke.

 

“Good thing you’re not invited,” Blythe says cheerfully. There’s a part of her that wishes she were playing video games all night with the boys, but she really wants to know what that look on Donna’s face means.

 

With the pizza gone, there’s no reason to linger, and Donna drives everybody home, finally pulling up in her own driveway just a little after midnight.

 

They go to Donna’s room and change into more comfortable clothing. Blythe brought a set of old sweats, and Donna changes into shorts and an ancient t-shirt. “So, it wasn’t horrible,” Donna says.

 

“Not horrible,” Blythe agrees. “Actually, it was kind of fun.”

 

“Be honest, you liked getting all dolled up,” Donna says.

 

Blythe shrugs. “It didn’t suck.”

 

“You looked gorgeous,” Donna says. “You still do.”

 

The moment suddenly grows charged, and Blythe swallows. “Donna—”

 

“You’re sixteen,” Donna says quietly. “And age of consent in California is eighteen.”

 

“Is that an issue?” Blythe asks.

 

She shrugs. “I’d like to kiss you.”

 

“I’d like that too,” Blythe admits.

 

Donna leans forward and presses her lips to Blythe’s. It’s chaste and tentative and achingly sweet. Blythe wants nothing more than for it to go on forever.

 

“I won’t tell anybody,” Blythe whispers when they break off the kiss. “We’re going to different schools in the fall. Everybody knows we’re friends.”

 

Donna cups her cheek. “Okay. Just—don’t forget tonight, okay?”

 

“I won’t ever forget you,” Blythe says, stung.

 

Donna shakes her head. “No, I mean, don’t forget that you’re beautiful, that you have more to offer the world than just your brain.”

 

Blythe feels her face heat. “Donna…”

 

“Just think about it,” Donna says. “And maybe kiss me again.”

 

Blythe has no problem doing just that.

 

**4.**

 

She’s sixteen and in her freshman year of college when she first starts to hide her gender. Blythe keeps her hair cut short and wears sports bras under baggy shirts and sweaters. She starts signing all her papers “R. B. Banner.”

 

She tries to forget how it felt to be both brainy _and_ beautiful, even if it was for just one night.

 

It starts the very first day when she shows up for her 8 am calculus class. She sits, and a boy leans over and says, “Hey, if you need some help with the material, let me know.”

 

She frowns, wondering if she looks lost. “What?”

 

“You know, if you have any trouble,” he adds. “So, what are you majoring in?”

 

“Physics and biochemistry,” she replies.

 

A skeptical look crosses his face. “Well, good luck.”

 

And that’s just the beginning. The guys in her class make comments about her figure. One of her professors routinely refuses to call on her. During her first group project, she’ll make a suggestion that’s ignored, only to be taken up fifteen minutes later when suggested by one of her male partners.

 

Her advisor goes so far as to suggest that she might be happier with a different major, or maybe even going into education because “there are always jobs for science teachers.”

 

All she really wants is for people to see the quality of her work, to look past her gender and see what she can _do_. Maybe they’re not the abusive assholes her father had been, but it’s the same old story—Blythe, as a woman, is worth less than a man.

 

There’s not much she can do about being a woman, but she can at least downplay her more obvious female characteristics.

 

By the end of the first year, everybody’s calling her Banner, and while there are plenty of rumors about her being a lesbian, she’s become one of the guys.

 

But she never forgets that she has to work twice as hard as her male classmates if she’s going to be successful.

 

**5.**

 

She meets Betty Ross during her junior year. Betty is everything that Blythe isn’t: pretty and feminine and supremely confident. For some odd reason, she seems to take a shine to Blythe in spite of Blythe’s reputation.

 

“We girls have to stick together,” she says lightly when Blythe asks, and Blythe has to admit that it’s a relief to have another girl in the few classes they share. She never lacks for a lab partner, and she never has to worry about her contributions being ignored or coopted as someone else’s idea.

 

“Do you ever have any fun?” Betty asks one day after Blythe finishes the lab assignment and the reading the day after it’s assigned, and at least a week before it’s actually due.

 

Blythe shrugs. “Science is fun.”

 

“Okay, you know I love science, but seriously,” Betty says, sounding exasperated. “There is more to life than this! You need to get out, meet more people, cut loose.”

 

Blythe has no intention of doing any of those things, but Betty won’t take no for an answer. She takes Blythe to parties and gets her drunk for the first time. They get an apartment together their senior year, and Blythe falls just a little bit in love with Betty.

 

Blythe has never been in love before, not even with Donna, and she has no idea what to do with this sudden attraction, the butterflies in her stomach, the need to make Betty happy. So, she hides out for several weeks, pleading grad school applications and final exams. By the time Blythe returns from winter break at her aunt’s house, she feels like she can be Betty’s friend without her crush being completely obvious.

 

There’s some part of her that suspects Betty knows all too well, but she never says anything, and Blythe is incredibly grateful to her for that fact, and for Betty making it known that she is definitely straight. She figures it’s probably a rite of passage for everybody to wind up with a crush on someone completely unattainable.

 

Their last semester, Betty says, “You never date. Why is that?”

 

It’s probably the closest Betty will get to acknowledging Blythe’s crush, just in case the reason behind Blythe not dating is that she’s carrying a torch for Betty.

 

Which, while true, isn’t the whole story.

 

“I have other priorities,” Blythe replies. “And you’ve seen the guys I hang out with. The ones who are single are single for a reason.”

 

Betty grimaces. “This is true.”

 

“Besides, most of them get intimidated when they find out who I am,” Blythe adds, which is the only downside (so far) to signing her work, “R. B. Banner.”

 

  1. B. Banner has served as a research assistant and co-authored articles with professors who recognized her abilities and hadn’t held her gender against her. There are still a fair few who refuse to give her any respect, but there are others who have been willing to mentor her, and bring her in on projects that even graduate students might find challenging.



 

Blythe knows she’s going to get into a doctorate program, and that she’ll succeed, but she also knows that she can’t afford to get distracted.

 

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t go out with them, have a little fun,” Betty encourages, sipping her wine cooler.

 

Blythe stares at her mug of coffee, and then says quietly, “Remember Dan?”

 

There’s a long pause, and Betty says, “You can’t build a case on Dan. Dan was an asshole.”

 

“Betty,” Blythe replies, letting the silence hang for a moment. “The problem is that I have no way of knowing who’s going to be the next Dan.”

 

Betty grimaces. “I know he fucked you over, Blythe, but there are good guys out there.”

 

“And I’m not sure I care,” Blythe replies, and it’s a typical argument between them. “I have one goal right now, and that’s to get my Ph.D. If I find true love on the way, I won’t say no, but I have better things to do than to go looking for it, especially given what most men think of me.”

 

Betty grimaces, but doesn’t respond, which tells Blythe she’s heard the same whispers Blythe has. “There are always women.”

 

“And relationships take time and energy and until I know where I’m going to settle down, why bother?” Blythe counters. “There’s my Ph.D., and there’s the time to find a tenure track job, and figure out where that’s going to be, and then there’s actually getting tenure, or possibly a permanent research position. And, to top it off, in the meantime I’m going to be making a graduate student stipend or adjunct professor salary.”

 

“There are enlightened men _and_ woman out there who will see your potential,” Betty argues, but Blythe thinks that at this point it’s more form than substance.

 

“When you meet one, let me know,” Blythe replies. “Until then, I’m happy with what I have.”

 

It’s almost true. She’s worked hard to get where she is, and she’s never been a person who needs a relationship in order to be content. She’s spent most of her life alone, and she still doesn’t feel as though it’s the end of the world.

 

But there’s still a small part of her that wishes, however fruitlessly, for a true partner. Someone who sees her for who she is, who isn’t threatened by her genius, who wants _her_ : warts, baggage and all.

 

**6.**

 

In spite of their differences, Blythe and Betty keep in touch during their respective graduate programs. Blythe goes to MIT, and Betty stays at Culver, which is unorthodox, but Culver’s biochem program is top-notch, and she has a great advisor. Even if most graduate students go further afield for their postgraduate programs, mostly to cultivate contacts and advisors, Betty can afford to stay at Culver.

 

As the daughter of General Thaddeus Ross, Betty has a ton of contacts already, and it’s unlikely she’ll ever lack for jobs.

 

Blythe can’t say the same, and she finishes out her master’s degrees in nuclear physics and chemistry at MIT, then goes to the University of Michigan to finish her Ph.D. in nuclear physics and another masters in biology.

 

She gets a position as an adjunct professor at Cal Tech for a couple of years, and then heads back to Culver when Betty begs her to takes a position with the Bio-Tech Force Enhancement Project, using what they know about Dr. Erskine’s super soldier experiments in the 1940’s to save soldier’s lives today.

 

“They need you, Blythe,” Betty says.

 

Blythe isn’t willing to burn her bridges like that. “If I leave now, I’m going to be leaving people in the lurch.”

 

“They’ll understand,” Betty argues. “It’s a DOD contract, and a huge career opportunity. You’re an adjunct who doesn’t have a tenure track yet. _Of course_ , you’re going to take this.”

 

Blythe knows what bringing this project home will do for her CV, and the reward might be worth the risks. Then again, if she fails, she will not only have burned her bridges at Cal Tech, but also at every institution where every person holding a grudge against her has connections. She may well be limited to military contracts in the future, which will give her interesting research opportunities, and eventually might outweigh the reputation she gets by leaving in the middle of a semester, but no guarantee.

 

“I need a replacement,” Blythe says, knowing she needs to mitigate the damage. “Someone impeccable who can pick up where I left off. I can’t do it otherwise.”

 

Betty hums in satisfaction. “I have just the person.”

 

Less than a month later, Blythe’s replacement has taken her place, and the transition is nearly seamless, which means that Blythe’s bridges are only slightly singed, and her reputation as someone dependable remains intact.

 

She’s under no illusions about taking a military contract. It’s good for her career, for sure, but historically the outcomes of using applied nuclear physics in a military context have not been good.

 

But it’s also an opportunity to get her name out there, to prove that she has one of the best minds in nuclear physics. A military contract now may mean the opportunity to do pure research in the future in other areas, maybe in areas where Blythe will be able to save lives. Betty is absolutely right that a project like this might make her career, especially if she’s successful.

 

Betty assures Blythe that she’ll be protecting soldiers from the effects of depleted uranium. If she’s going to be working on a military contract, this is one of the better ones, and she can’t deny that influences her decision.

 

And Blythe is used to academic pressures—publish or perish, as the saying goes—but General Ross and the DOD want results yesterday. She’s barely on the project a month when they start talking about cutting the funding.

 

She knows that if she fails at this, if the project gets shut down, her career might be over before it’s barely begun. She’d left behind an adjunct professor position at the beginning of a semester to take this job, upsetting multiple people, while under the impression that it would advance her career.

 

Now, she’s looking at total failure, and as the pressures mount, Blythe begins to consider desperate measures.

 

Talking about it with Betty over dinner one night, Blythe expresses her frustration. “They haven’t given me enough time!”

 

“I know,” Betty says, trying to sound reassuring. “I know, but they want to know that they’re going to see results.”

 

Betty has been around contractors and the DOD her entire life, and so she’s a little more accepting of the process than Blythe is.

 

Blythe sips her tea. “And if the project gets shut down, the likelihood of me being able to get another position goes down the tubes.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Betty scolds. “You’re well known as an expert in the field. That’s how you got this job in the first place.”

 

Blythe shakes her head. “This is my first major contract, and I left a teaching position to take this job because it was supposed to _help_ me.”

 

“And there will be other contracts,” Betty replies. “Blythe, I know you’ve made this work your life, but there is more out there. Even if this one doesn’t pan out, you’ll find more work, or another teaching position.”

 

Blythe shakes her head. “When even men are struggling to find positions in their fields, you know it’s not going to be that easy.”

 

“And maybe being a woman could actually work for you,” Betty argues. “Plenty of colleges are looking to hire women as professors so they can claim to have an interest in diversity.”

 

That hasn’t been Blythe’s experience, but she and Betty have always had differing views on the real state of equality in STEM fields. Blythe tends to be more pessimistic.

 

“But a failure here means that I probably won’t get another defense contract,” Blythe points out.

 

“So, put your focus somewhere else,” Betty argues. “Maybe develop other interests, date a little bit, see if you can find love.”

 

“I don’t have time to date,” Blythe objects, exasperated. “Besides, finding someone who can keep up with me has been impossible. Relationships take more time and effort than I can afford to give at the moment.”

 

“And what am I?” Betty asks, although she sounds more amused than anything else.

 

“My best friend?” Blythe suggests.

 

Betty shakes her head. “More like your only friend, but your best friend, too. And as your best friend, you should listen to me.”

 

“You know as well as I do that if I were to get married and have kids, it would be that much harder to do what I want to do,” Blythe argues. “I don’t get to have that, Betty. I’m _never_ going to have that.”

 

“Blythe…” Betty trails off. “Don’t say that.”

 

“It’s the truth,” she says. “Besides, what do I have to offer anybody? I’m obsessed with my work, and I have enough baggage to fill a truck.”

 

Betty sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t sell yourself short.”

 

Not for the first time, Blythe wishes that Betty weren’t so straight. “As my best friend, you’re biased.”

 

“That’s kind of my job,” Betty replies. “What are you going to do?”

 

Blythe shrugs. “The only thing I can do: prove that the serum and the process works, however I can.”

 

The thing is, Blythe really does believe that she’s on the right track with the serum. She can’t ask anybody else to volunteer as a guinea pig, but she can prove that it works by using it on herself and then getting exposed to gamma radiation.

 

Later, Blythe will wrack her brain, trying to figure out the moment everything went wrong, but it’s impossible, because the transformation had already started. She vaguely recalls the monitors screaming out a warning, arching against the bindings of the chair, and _pain_.

 

The pain calls forth an answering anger so great that it’s all consuming, and everything that comes after that is fractured and uncertain.

 

She comes back to herself in the lab, and she’s alone. The lab is in a shambles—equipment thrown against walls, tables crumpled, electronic equipment smashed into pieces, the chair twisted by—

 

Blythe’s brain stutters to a halt. She glances down at her clothing and realizes that it’s in shreds. She had worn something comfortable for today’s test—her favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The button of the jeans had apparently popped off, and the legs had split along the seams. The t-shirt is stretched out, the neck torn, and there are holes under the arms where the seams split there, but at least it’s covering her.

 

Everything hurts—her _hair_ hurts—but worst of all is that she has no idea what had happened, or what she’d done. She’s hungry, and she’s scared, and she begins to feel the panic well up again.

 

“Dr. Banner, easy.”

 

She recognizes General Ross’ voice immediately. “Sir?”

 

“There was an incident,” General Ross says. “If you’ve got yourself under control, I’ll unlock the door, and you can get cleaned up and get some new clothes.”

 

Blythe wants to agree, but she has to know. “Betty?”

 

“She was injured, but she’ll make a full recovery—in time.”

 

Those last two words sound ominous, but Blythe shoves aside her fear. She knows General Ross well enough to know that she’s not going to get any additional information out of him right now.

 

And she wants to get cleaned up, and get into clean clothing, and maybe get something to eat because she’s _starving_.

 

Blythe isn’t all that surprised to find two armed guards outside her door, although one of them offers a respectful nod and hands her a pile of clothing.

 

“We’ve made arrangements, Dr. Banner,” he says. “General Ross’ orders are that you have an escort at all times.”

 

She hates the idea, but doesn’t see a way around it, and until she gets answers, she has to play by their rules. There are shower facilities in the building, and they offer at least the illusion of privacy. Blythe gets cleaned up, and then she’s shown to another lab, where General Ross is waiting for her.

 

“Sir?” Blythe says stiffly, sitting down in the chair across from him.

 

Ross leans back in his chair. “We’ll need to get some blood samples from you. I’m sure you understand, given what happened.”

 

“What _did_ happen?” Blythe asks, hearing the edge of desperation in her voice and hating it. She takes a breath and modulates her tone. “I don’t remember anything from the point of the test starting.”

 

There’s a laptop open on the desk, and he turns it so the screen faces her. “Press play.”

 

Her hand shaking slightly, Blythe presses play. She sees herself grinning at the camera, joking as Betty hooks up the electrodes. Everything seems normal, and then Blythe watches herself arch, pulling against the restraints. Her skin begins to take on a green hue, and her body swells. The restraints break, and a huge green fist swings around, taking out the medical equipment.

 

There’s no sound, so Blythe doesn’t know what Betty is saying, but she can imagine. Betty would have tried to help, and she’s backhanded by another green fist for her troubles. At that point, the _thing_ Blythe had become takes out the camera.

 

“But Betty is going to be okay?” Blythe asks faintly. She feels numb, and more than a little stunned. She remembers nothing, and she hates that as much as the loss of control she’d apparently suffered.

 

“She’ll recover in time,” Ross says forbiddingly. “I have to say, the outcome of this situation is quite unexpected. You’ve given us a weapon we can use.”

 

Blythe’s blood runs cold, but she attempts to maintain a poker face. “How so?”

 

“Did you see the damage?” Ross asks. “Properly harnessed, that firepower could mean that no American soldier ever has to die again.”

 

Blythe knows she can’t give Ross that power, both intellectually, and at an instinctual level. She also knows that if she sticks around, Ross will turn her into a pincushion, taking blood and other materials, and then maybe using _her_ as a weapon.

 

She’d be just another body, cannon fodder, and Ross will create more monsters.

 

“I understand, General Ross,” she says, hoping that she sounds appropriately cowed. “I agree with your assessment.” She agrees, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to give Ross what he wants. “Do you think I might see Betty?”

 

“I suppose that can be arranged,” he replies, sounding generous. “And then we should really talk about our next steps.”

 

Blythe nods. “Thank you, sir.”

 

But after she sees Betty, and sees the damage that she’s done, Blythe takes her chance and walks right out.

 

She’s hungry and tired, and everything still hurts, but she knows better than to stick around. She can eat when she gets somewhere safe, and she can sleep when she’s far enough away.

 

The first three days after the accident are some of the worst of her life. Blythe has had very little time to prepare, or to plan. All she knows is that she has to get _away_.

 

She withdraws cash from her account, up to the limit. Ross and his goons will probably pull her bank records, and then they’ll know she’s running, but the cash is untraceable once she has it in her hands.

 

She can’t go home, and she has no idea who she might be able to trust. She doesn’t know where to go, or what to do, or how to _hide_.

 

Her anger is like a living thing in her chest, and she forces it back down through a force of will, walking briskly towards the nearest bus stop, trying to clear her head so she can think calmly.

 

 _Disguise first_ , she reminds herself and boards the first bus that pulls up to the stop.

 

Blythe has her messenger bag, and if she dumps a lot of the papers, and anything else she won’t need, she can fit a change of clothes and some underthings. While at Culver, she’s let her hair grow long again, and that’s an easy fix. Blythe will need a binder, and men’s clothing, and shoes, and a bus ticket out of town.

 

She opts for Wal-Mart, because the bus runs there, and she can get everything she needs in relative anonymity. Blythe takes her purchases to a rundown motel near the bus station and gets a room. Even though she has no intention of staying there, she needs the privacy to ensure her disguise is in place before she leaves town.

 

With a pair of scissors, she cuts off her ponytail, and then proceeds to trim the rest of her hair until it’s short all over. She brushes the hair away and pulls on a sports bra, one that flattens her chest as much as possible, and then pulls on an oversized t-shirt and flannel shirt. The baggy pants and multiple layers hide her figure. A baseball cap completes the disguise.

 

For the first time, Blythe is grateful for her strong features. She’s never really been pretty, and right now, that’s going to protect her.

 

She takes a deep breath, looks in the mirror and says, “I’m Robert.” She deepens her voice. “I’m Robert.”

 

Blythe goes through her bag carefully, keeping what she needs and throwing out the rest. She puts a spare t-shirt and a few pairs of boxers and socks in the bottom. She has a few toiletries, and that makes up her kit.

 

She leaves after dark, trying to make sure no one sees her, and buys a bus ticket to Brownsville, Texas. She has no idea how she’s going to make it to Mexico, because she can’t risk being stopped.

 

That means sneaking across the border, and Blythe has never considered doing something like that. She’s never done anything illegal in her life, but that probably has to change.

 

She’s mostly fine until Atlanta, where she has to transfer buses. Blythe has a couple of hours to kill before her next bus leaves, and she grabs a vending machine sandwich and tries to catch a nap on one of the chairs in the lobby.

 

All she wants is to be left in peace, to get to Brownsville and find a way to cross the border, but someone kicks her legs as they’re passing, and she wakes up from a light doze.

 

“What have we got here?”

 

Blythe feels the threat in the words, and she feels a spike of anger. She crosses her arms more tightly over her chest. “I don’t want any trouble,” she says, and hears how deep her own voice has gotten.

 

If she doesn’t maintain control, things are going to get very ugly, very soon.

 

“So, what are you? A pretty boy or some she-male?”

 

She looks up and sees the man in a dirty white t-shirt and torn jeans. His head is shaved, and he has tattoos on his arms that she doesn’t want to look at too closely. “Leave me alone.”

 

“A she-male,” he sneers. “Think you’re tough?”

 

“I’m not interested in being tough,” she replies. “I just want to get where I’m going.”

 

He looms over her, and Blythe stands up, hoping to put some distance between them. “I’m warning you, leave me alone.”

 

“What are you going to do, she-male?” he taunts. “You going to hit me?”

 

She can feel the change beginning, and it pisses her off that much more because she’d been minding her own business. She’s not hurting anybody. She’s not doing anything _wrong_.

 

“What’s going on here?”

 

She takes a couple of deep breaths. The female police officer she’d noted earlier had apparently decided to intervene, and if she gets her anger under control, she might yet get out of this without any trouble.

 

“We was just having a conversation,” the man says.

 

“Brandt, I’ve just about had enough of you coming around here, hassling people,” the officer snaps. “Next time I see you here without a good reason, I’m going to arrest you.”

 

Brandt is clearly distracted by the officer’s presence. He puffs out his chest and says, “Yeah? What for? It’s a public area. I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”

 

“Well, let’s see,” the officer drawls. “I saw you kick his legs, so that’s assault right there.”

 

Blythe feels a sense of alarm that whittles away at her control. “Officer, please, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to catch my next bus.”

 

The officer smiles, and she sees the nameplate reading D. Samson. “Well, now, I don’t see how me arresting this asshole would interfere with anything. Granted, the charges won’t stick without a witness, but that would be up to you.”

 

The relief Blythe feels swamps her anger, and she feels like she might manage to avoid a loss of control. “Don’t let me stop you from doing your job, ma’am.”

 

“Courtesy is a dying art,” Samson says, whipping out her handcuffs. “I’m glad someone remembers how to show some respect.”

 

“Aw, come on!” Brandt protests. “It’s just some she-male—”

 

His protest is cut off by a stream of profanity as Samson tightens the cuffs. “You know, the last time I arrested you, it was because you called me a bitch. How many days did you spend in jail for that one?”

 

She gives Blythe a sympathetic look as she leads Brandt away, and Blythe breathes a sigh of relief.

 

Of course, now that she’s up, Blythe realizes that she has to use the bathroom, and she has no idea which one to choose. She finally pulls off her baseball cap, shoves it in her bag, and goes for the women’s restroom. It kind of blows her cover, but it’s safer in a lot of ways. There are stalls, and as Brandt had just demonstrated, she can’t completely pass as a man.

 

She just has to hope that no one thinks that she might try to disguise herself as one to get away from Ross.

 

~~~~~

 

The border crossing is kind of a joke. It turns out that crossing into Mexico isn’t a big deal, especially if you look like just one more American tourist. Since all Blythe has is her messenger bag, she definitely looks the part.

 

She speaks passable Spanish, and her money stretches further here. She can’t stay in Matamoros, so she gets another bus ticket, this time to Monterrey. Blythe knows that she needs to stick to the bigger cities because it will be easier to disappear in a crowd, and she’ll stick out like a sore thumb in a smaller town. As she gets farther from the border, and begins to look for work, she’ll need papers, but she can figure that out later.

 

No one seems to pay her much attention on the bus ride to Monterrey, which is a relief. Blythe has no idea what will trigger a transformation at this point, but feeling threatened is probably a good bet. She’d come far too close to losing it in Atlanta.

 

She has no idea what she looks like when she transforms. Ross had indicated that she had increased in size and strength, and she knows that she turns green, but that’s about it. The video hadn’t been entirely clear.

 

Of course, there isn’t anyone she can trust to ask. She’s sent an email to Betty, but so far, no response, and Blythe can’t blame her. She’d put her best friend in the hospital, and she doesn’t blame Betty for wanting nothing to do with her.

 

Blythe gets off the bus in Monterrey and quickly begins to look for a place to stay. She finds a little place that offers no more than a bed and a hot plate, but it’s cheap, and that’s what she needs right now.

 

Finding a job presents more of a problem. She doesn’t have any papers, and has no idea how to get them without a passport. Her cash had been sufficient to head off any questions until now, but if she doesn’t find work in the next couple of weeks, she’ll be out on the street.

 

Her landlady apparently notices Blythe’s increasing desperation. “You have not found work?” she asks in Spanish when Blythe pays another week’s rent.

 

Blythe shakes her head. “No, I cannot go home, but if I don’t find work, I won’t be able to stay here either.”

 

“You go to FEMSA, and talk to my cousin,” Mrs. Ramirez replies. “I’ll tell him to expect you. I would hate to lose a good tenant.”

 

Blythe swallows, humbled by the generous gesture, no matter how selfishly motivated it might be. “ _Gracias_ ,”

 

“ _De nada_ ,” is the reply.

 

Blythe goes to FEMSA, which happens to be the largest bottler of Coca-Cola in the world, and is hired on the spot to work in the bottling plant. Guillermo Gutierrez doesn’t even ask where she’s from, he just puts her to work.

 

That night, on the way back to her tiny flat, she’s exhausted, but relieved. She can stay in Monterrey for a little while, get on her feet, maybe start looking into a cure for her condition.

 

On a whim, and because she’s no longer quite so worried about money, she buys a newspaper, mostly because it has a picture of Tony Stark on the front page. He’s apparently making a visit to Mexico City to enter into talks about establishing a presence south of the border.

 

Blythe has no idea how she feels about Stark building weapons here, since that also means government contracts, and the potential for the US Army to show up. On the other hand, she’ll readily admit that the man is gorgeous, and exactly her type. If nothing else, it’s a nice picture of him.

 

And if she has to run again, she’ll do that.

 

**7.**

 

There are a lot of reasons to disguise her gender, or at least to downplay it. It’s about disguise, and about opportunity. A lot of prospective employers won’t hire a woman to do the work Blythe can do, mostly electrical and maintenance. She’s not exactly trying to _pass_ , but she’s definitely not encouraging people to look below the surface.

 

She stays in Monterrey for a little over a year, saving money and cobbling together equipment to look for a cure. Mostly, she keeps to herself, trying to ride the line between being friendly but not too familiar. When she leaves, she does so quietly, saying goodbye to a few people and then drifting south, staying nowhere more than a few months, finally landing in Rio de Janeiro for a while, the city offering her anonymity.

 

People tend to think that she’s younger than she is, because of her smooth cheeks and lean build. She uses that to her advantage more than once, letting people believe she’s a young man just getting his start in the world.

 

By the time she winds up in Rio, she’s starting to go gray, and the lines around her eyes and mouth deepen. She stops hiding her gender at that point, but she still keeps her hair short and prefers men’s trousers and shirts.

 

It’s harder to get jobs, but she’s no closer to a cure, and therefore no closer to being able to go home. She’s lucky enough to find a job at a soda factory, and she tries to keep to herself, having noticed more than a few unfriendly looks from some of the men.

 

She has second shift, and she gets cornered after two months working there. There are three of them, all men about her age or older, greasy and sweaty after a day’s worth of work.

 

“Please,” she says in her broken Portuguese. “Don’t do this.”

 

“You think you’re a man?” one asks. “You think you’re one of us.”

 

Blythe backs up, looking for an escape route. “No, I don’t. I just don’t want trouble. Please.”

 

The second man spits out a word that Blythe can only assume is uncomplimentary. She isn’t familiar with all the slang, so she can’t be sure, but she’s pretty certain it has something to do with dressing in men’s clothing.

 

“Please don’t make me angry,” she begs. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

They laugh at her, an edge of cruelty present, and she can feel herself responding, feel the rage take over. This time, she welcomes it, because the alternative is worse. She doesn’t want to kill them, but she wouldn’t mind doing serious bodily harm.

 

She remembers little about it later, just brief flashes, but she knows that they were at least still breathing when she runs, and she has just enough time to gather her few possessions and leave the country before the Army gets wind of her transformation.

 

**8.**

 

Blythe leaves hot and humid Brazil and heads north. The journey is nerve wracking, mostly because she knows there’s no way the Army doesn’t have a bead on her location now, not after beating those guys to a pulp.

 

She keeps as low a profile as possible, knowing that she’ll have to make the trip back across the border stealthily, and the only safety blanket she has is the fact that she probably can’t be killed, and if anybody tries to harm her, they’ll get far more than they bargained for, as she’d just proven.

 

It’s cold comfort, considering the danger and the fear, and her concern for her fellow travelers. She does what she can to help those with whom she crosses the river, mostly teenagers and women with small children.

 

Blythe’s heart is in her throat the entire time, because while she might be impervious to injury, her companions are not.

 

Whatever her feelings had been in the past, seeing the determination of her companions, many of them young and frightened, and without other recourse, she develops a new appreciation for those willing to brave the dangers of a border crossing alone.

 

Then again, hiring a coyote or guide carries other dangers along with the expense.

 

Once on US soil again, Blythe sets off alone. She gets a job waiting tables at a little cantina, where she stays for a couple of weeks to earn enough money for a bus ticket. Two weeks is about the maximum amount of time she’ll let herself stay anywhere in the States, and she’s grateful when she hops a Greyhound for Los Angeles.

 

The problem she encounters in the states is that nearly anyone could be someone looking to capture her. Granted, there had been plenty of tourists and people in South America on business, but Blythe had stuck to areas more familiar to natives.

 

In the US, anyone could be an enemy, and she has no idea who to trust, or how to tell potential friend from foe.

 

She’s barely sleeping and jumping at shadows, and Blythe knows she needs to rethink her strategy.

 

So, she figures out what vegetables and fruits are in season, and determines the location of a migrant workers’ camp, and Blythe goes looking for work.

 

She gets hired on, mostly because a bout of influenza, or some other virus, has knocked out enough workers to require hiring any warm body that shows up.

 

Blythe gets assigned a room in a house that’s already crowded with strangers, but since she can speak Spanish, they seem to accept her well enough. She presents herself as a widow, someone who had been married to a Mexican national who had been killed at the border crossing. The story gains her sympathy, and she feels bad about lying, but at the same time, she knows she they’ll watch out for her.

 

Nearly everyone here is worried about raids from ICE, and so they keep a sharp lookout for people who don’t belong, for those who look as though they might be from the government.

 

Blythe is in town one day, buying a few supplies, when she sees a Latino man with a shaved head. He bumps into her in the market and apologizes in Spanish. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

 

She ducks her head. “No problem.”

 

“I wanted to warn you,” the man says in Spanish. “There are men sniffing around, maybe immigration. Stick to the camps.”

 

Blythe swallows and nods, thanking him and quickly checking out. She’s tempted to drop everything and run, but that would raise more suspicion, and she can’t afford that right now.

 

There’s a part of her that wants to run, but she suspects her informant is correct; Blythe will be safer in the camp, where there are more lookouts.

 

Then again, she doesn’t want to put anyone at risk.

 

“What is it, Blythe?” Lupe asks. She’s an older woman who takes great pride in the fact that both of her sons are in college. They’re American citizens, although Lupe is not. “You seem nervous.”

 

“A man in town said that there were people asking around, and to stick to the camps,” she replies. “I do not know whether to stay or run.”

 

Lupe’s eyes go sharp and knowing. “It is not immigration chasing you, _chica_.”

 

“No,” she admits. “There are others.”

 

Lupe nods. “So I thought. You are American, I can tell by your accent, although it is quite good. You have no papers?”

 

Blythe shakes her head. “I made some men very angry.”

 

“I will not ask why,” Lupe says. “It is none of my business. I will say that here in the camp, we watch out for each other. The man who spoke to you is correct. You are safer here.”

 

Blythe hesitates. “But it will put the camp in danger.”

 

“We are always in danger,” Lupe replies soberly. “From immigration, from the men who sometimes get drunk and rowdy, from the _jefes_ , from the sun and heat. Living is a dangerous business in itself. You must let others help you.”

 

“I don’t know who to trust,” Blythe admits, although she somehow trusts Lupe.

 

Lupe grips her hands. “Trust me, then, and I will tell you who else is safe.”

 

Blythe takes a deep breath and agrees. “I think I have to head north.”

 

“We follow the crops,” Lupe replies. “You follow them, and I will get you across the other border.”

 

Lupe is as good as her word. The next two months are filled with hard work under the hot sun, following the crops up the coast, and then west into Idaho. Strawberries and cucumbers and tomatoes, onions and sugar beets and potatoes.

 

When they’re within striking distance of the Canadian border, Lupe asks one of the young men—one who actually has a passport and is working to support his family—to drive Blythe over the border.

 

Mario has apparently done this before, because he’s hollowed out the bench seat in his station wagon. She looks at the empty spot dubiously.

 

“People much bigger than you have squeezed in there,” Mario says with a grin. “Two women have hidden in there, and several children. You will be comfortable enough.”

 

Blythe doesn’t have much choice, and she knows it. She hugs Lupe and thanks her profusely.

 

“Be well,” Lupe orders. “Find happiness.”

 

“I’ll try,” Blythe promises, although she privately doesn’t think it’s going to happen.

 

Lupe gives her a knowing look. “You will always be welcome with us, _chica_.”

 

Blythe appreciates that. “Thank you for everything.”

 

The ride north is bumpy, and she holds her breath when the car begins the stop and start motion Mario had indicated would indicate a border crossing. Blythe breathes shallowly through her mouth, as silently as possible.

 

They cross without incident, though, and Mario lets her out of her hiding place an hour past the border. They drive in silence until Mario reaches Lethbridge—which is big enough to disappear in, and far enough from the border to keep her safe.

 

“Will you be okay?” Mario asks.

 

Blythe nods. “Thanks. This was above and beyond.”

 

“Hey, we all need a hand sometimes,” Mario replies philosophically.

 

“If you ever need one from me, or if anybody else does, I’ll do whatever I can,” Blythe promises. “You know, if I’m ever not on the run.”

 

Mario smiles. “You and most of my family. Just pay it forward, that’s all I ask.”

 

“Done,” Blythe promises easily. “Take care, Mario.”

 

“You, too, Blythe,” he replies.

 

There’s no easy way to get from Lethbridge to Calgary, so Blythe has to hitchhike. She’s got some money saved, and she’s careful to look for other women traveling alone, or couples, which seem to be a safer bet.

 

Blythe lucks out with three students traveling back to St. Mary’s in Calgary who are willing to let her ride along in exchange for gas money.

 

“Where are you from?” the driver, a girl named Samantha, asks.

 

“Ohio,” Blythe replies, which is close enough to the truth. That’s where she had been born.

 

“Any plans in Calgary?” a boy asks. He’s maybe 20 and looks five years younger, with spiky brown hair and a snubbed nose.

 

Blythe shrugs. “I’m trying to find myself. You know, see the world, find the meaning of life, figure out what my next steps are.”

 

“I hear that,” the boy replies, and Blythe remembers that his name is Jamie. “I wouldn’t even be going back to school, but my parents didn’t give me the option.”

 

Blythe smiles. “Finish school, and then do what you like. That’s what I’ve done.”

 

Jamie smiles wistfully. “Dad’s expecting me to go into business with him.”

 

“Ask him for some time after you graduate,” Blythe suggests. “If you graduate at the top of your class, he won’t say no.”

 

Maybe Jamie will figure out that he enjoys school, or maybe he’ll tell his dad to go to hell someday. But getting a degree never hurt anybody.

 

“Did you graduate?” Jamie challenges her.

 

“Physics,” she says, although that’s only part of the story. “I got my doctorate, but burned out on academia.”

 

“You’ve got quite the tan,” Samantha comments.

 

Blythe shrugs. “I worked a manual labor job for a while, just to get my head on straight.”

 

They leave her alone after that—Sam and Jamie and Betsy, who seems naturally reticent. When they hit the outskirts of Calgary, Samantha asks, “Where can I drop you?”

 

“Do you know any decent diners?” Blythe asks. “Because that would be fine.”

 

“Sure,” Samantha replies. “Happy to drop you off wherever.”

 

There’s a place just off campus that the students apparently frequent, and that’s where they leave Blythe with her duffel. “Good luck,” Betsy says unexpectedly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

 

“Thanks,” Blythe replies. She’s impressed by the kindness of strangers. She isn’t always, but more frequently than she expects, people surprise her. These kids, so like the students she’d once taught, surprise her. “Good luck.”

 

“You, too,” Samantha replies.

 

Blythe gets dinner at the diner and then heads for the nearest bar. She needs time to think about her next steps, and while she doesn’t usually drink, she’s not ready to check into a hotel. She orders a beer and nurses it slowly.

 

“Hey, beautiful.”

 

Blythe sighs. She really hopes she can get rid of this idiot quickly. “Not interested, but thanks for the compliment.”

 

“There’s no sense in drinking alone,” the man protests, gripping her arm. “Don’t you want company?”

 

“Not really,” Blythe replies. “Please, let me go.”

 

“Why are you being such a bitch?” he asks.

 

Blythe pulls free, and she’s not entirely sure what happens next. “I’m really not interested,” she says.

 

He refuses to let her go, and Blythe twists away, and then all hell breaks loose. Someone challenges the guy and punches start flying, a big guy—black and with an eye patch—hauls her out of the danger zone.

 

“You okay?” the man asks.

 

“Fine,” she replies. “What was that about?”

 

“No idea,” he says. “Probably best to get out of here while you can. Do you have somewhere to go?”

 

“I just need to get to a hotel,” she replies.

 

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he says.

 

She tries to pull back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

 

“I’m the guy who’s going to see you safe to your hotel,” he replies. “I’m Nick.”

 

She swallows, not wanting to give him her name. “Roberta.”

 

“Let me escort you,” he asks, although it’s more of a statement than a request.

 

She shrugs, not seeing another option. “If you insist.”

 

There’s a motel nearby, and the man walks her over, waits until she checks in for the night, and then walks her to her door. “Good luck, Roberta,” he says. “Stay safe.”

 

She’s surprised he leaves it at that, but he does. Blythe closes and locks the door behind her and breathes deeply. She’s safe enough for now.

 

**9.**

 

Blythe doesn’t like being lied to, and she doesn’t like being manipulated. Not that anyone does, but Dan had made any deception especially troubling.

 

Other than Betty, no one else knows what had happened with Dan, another physics major, whom she had dated for a semester. He’d sought _her_ out, had flirted outrageously, and hadn’t seemed to mind that she was smarter, her grades better, professing to admire her intelligence, her work ethic, and her body.

 

He had been the first boy she’d dated, and the first she’d slept with. It hadn’t been until the end of the semester, when she’d been called into the Dean’s office on an accusation of plagiarism for her final project that she’d realized he’d lied about all of it.

 

The only thing that had saved Blythe is that she’d sought her TA’s advice on the project months before, and he confirmed that she had been the original author.

 

Dan got expelled, and Blythe got a lecture on not being so naïve to let a fellow student steal her work.

 

When she fell for Ross’ line, that her work would be used to save lives, and he told her he’d always intended to build a weapon, Blythe felt that same sick sense of being used, of being an idiot to believe the line she’d been sold.

 

She’d become that much warier, which served her well when on the run.

 

She’s developed a sixth sense over the years, knowing when she’s being watched, and this situation is no exception. She’s in a tiny restaurant in New Delhi when she catches sight of a man who is clearly either European or American, dark blond hair and blue eyes marking him as a foreigner.

 

Blythe wears a sari and covers her head, both to respect local custom and to blend in. She will never be mistaken for a native, but her dark eyes and hair, and the native dress, do help her not to stand out like the man obviously does, especially in this neighborhood.

 

Leaving now would be too conspicuous, as she’s still waiting in line for her _chai_ and _aloo paranthi_ , but she’s cognizant that her poor Hindi will give her away as a foreigner.

 

On the other hand, she’s been coming to this place for a few months now, and she’s well known to the owners and the other regulars. “Your usual order, doctor?” Ashok asks.

 

“Please,” she replies in Hindi, glancing at the stranger.

 

Ashok smiles. “He will soon be quite preoccupied.”

 

Blythe inclines her head in thanks and takes her hot drink and the _paranthi_.

 

Sure enough, she’s just turned around when she hears the man cursing in English. “Ah, shit.”

 

The _chaiwala_ apologizes profusely, all in Hindi, and Blythe uses the opportunity to escape, slipping away and losing herself in the crowds of New Delhi.

 

Blythe has found that by offering her services, trying to learn the language and blend in, and respecting local customs, people seem to take a certain responsibility for her. She is _their_ doctor, and they look after her in a fashion.

 

She’s still an outsider, and will always _be_ an outsider, but by establishing herself in the community, she develops a layer of protection. She learned that trick in the migrant camps, and it’s served her well over the years.

 

As a survival tactic, it’s proved invaluable.

 

Of course, it’s not until much later that she realizes that some of the people following her had actually been running interference. And when she sees the picture of Clint Barton on the helicarrier, she recognizes him as the man she thought was chasing her in New Delhi.

 

It’s a small world, after all.

 

**10.**

 

There’s a part of her that knows she can’t run forever, that someday, she’ll reach the end of the line, and she’ll have to face who and what she is.

 

She won’t hasten that day, though, and everywhere she goes, Blythe sets up a small network of informants, consisting of those least likely to be noticed: children.

 

Blythe is leaning over a sick woman, checking her temperature, when a small girl pops up, speaking quickly in Bengali. “Doctor, doctor, there are people asking after you!”

 

She sits back on her heels. “How many people?”

 

“There is a woman in a sari, and men with guns!”

 

Blythe considers her options. She could leave, disappear into the crowds and start again, or she could confront her pursuers.

 

She’s pretty sure they can’t hurt her, and she’d be surprised if they could hold her. Then again, if she transforms, a lot of people are going to get hurt.

 

“Do you know where they are?” Blythe asks.

 

Arpita grins at her. “The woman wanted me to lead you there. It is at the edge of the city.”

 

“I hope you got paid up front, little one,” Blythe replies with a smile.

 

Arpita just laughs.

 

“Of course you did,” Blythe replies. “Clever girl. I think you’d better show me.”

 

The small shack is on the edge of the city, so if she does transform, she might avoid hurting anybody.

 

Blythe sends Arpita off immediately before she enters the shack, seeing shifting shadows that indicate they’re surrounded. She takes a deep breath, straightens her purple sari, and walks inside the house.

 

She’s facing the door when the other woman enters, and has a moment of pleasure when surprise briefly crosses her face.

 

“I’d say that it was pretty low to use a child for your dirty work, but then I’m guilty of the same, and her family will eat especially well tonight,” Blythe says. “The subterfuge was smart. We’re at the edge of the city, so that’s good.”

 

“I just want to talk to you,” she replies. “That’s all.” She’s dressed in local attire, her red hair chin-length, but she would never pass as a local; she looks like tourist trying to blend in. “I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

 

Blythe crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “And what do you want with me?”

 

“I told you, I just want to talk. I’m here from SHIELD,” Romanoff replies.

 

“How did you find me?” she asks, hoping for a straight answer but not expecting one. She’d like to know just so she can prevent them from finding her again, assuming she can get away.

 

“We never lost you, Dr. Banner,” Romanoff replies. “We just watched and kept a few other interested parties off your trail.”

 

She snorts, because that isn’t creepy _at all,_ if it’s actually the truth. “Fine. You knew where I was this whole time. What brings you here now?”

 

“We need your help,” Romanoff replies, sitting down at a table.

 

It’s the way she sits down, the way she angles her body. It’s the way the child had led her here, to this conveniently empty house on the outskirts of the city, but that still has furniture—like the table and chairs, perfect for a cozy little chat.

 

“You mean you need _her_ ,” Blythe replies.

 

“No, I mean we need _you_ ,” Romanoff counters, pulling out a phone. “Director Fury sent me to request your help finding this.”

 

Blythe takes the phone, curiosity getting the better of her, and she looks at the blue, glowing cube. “What am I looking at?”

 

“It’s called the tesseract,” Romanoff replies. “And it emits gamma radiation. It’s been stolen, and we believe they’re going to use it as a weapon.”

 

Blythe sets the phone back down. “And if I refuse? What are you going to do then?”

 

“I’ll persuade you,” Romanoff says with a coy smile. “I can be…very persuasive.”

 

Blythe realizes that SHIELD’s file on her must be fairly thorough, because Romanoff’s attitude suggests they know she’s bi, and that she’s had relationships with both men and women.

 

Granted, she can count those relationships on one hand, but there had been an equal number of men and women.

 

“I don’t persuade easily,” Blythe says flatly. “What then? Are your men and your guns going to try to take me by force?”

 

There’s just a flicker on Romanoff’s face, and Blythe realizes that she’s scared, scared of the monster under Blythe’s skin. “It’s just you and me, Dr. Banner,” she says evenly.

 

Blythe allows a hint of anger to creep into her voice. “Do not test me, Agent Romanoff. I have been on the run for a very long time, and you’ll find I don’t appreciate people lying to me.”

 

She can tell the moment when Romanoff decides to keep bluffing. “Dr. Banner, I assure you we’re alone. No one is interested in taking you by force.”

 

Blythe decides to call her bluff. “Then you won’t mind leaving me alone.”

 

She moves towards the door, and Romanoff grabs her arm. “Dr. Banner—”

 

“Don’t touch me!” Blythe snarls, pulling away sharply.

 

Romanoff pulls a gun on her, and Blythe feels the change begin. The threat of violence is a trigger, and she stares down the barrel. “Just us, huh?” she asks, her voice a little guttural. “Maybe you should put that away before we end up doing this the hard way. I’m sure you know just what I’m capable of.”

 

Romanoff lowers her weapon slowly and places it on the table, then calls off the goons outside. The following silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.

 

“Word of advice,” Blythe says tonelessly. “Don’t lie to me. We’ll both be happier that way.”

 

Romanoff nods. “Will you come?”

 

Blythe thinks about it for a moment. “This tesseract—if you don’t find it, what happens?”

 

“Possibly the end of the world,” Romanoff responds without a trace of sarcasm, and Blythe is pretty sure she’s telling the truth, or at least that she believes it to be the truth.

 

“You’re not just pulling me in,” Blythe comments, thinking through the possibilities. “Who else?”

 

Romanoff hesitates, but this time Blythe is fairly certain that it’s because she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to relay that information. If Romanoff were going to lie, she’d have replied immediately and without any hesitation.

 

“Iron Man and Captain America,” she finally says.

 

Blythe lets out a bark of laughter, but doesn’t try explaining when confusion crosses Romanoff’s face. “Well, then, how can I refuse?”

 

She’s pretty sure that even if SHIELD tries to lock her up, she’ll be able to get away eventually. She’s even more certain that they can’t kill her.

 

And given what she’s seen of Tony Stark’s antics in front of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, and what she knows of Captain America’s moral fortitude, there’s a chance that they’d at least require SHIELD to justify locking her away.

 

Besides, the truth is that Blythe has had a crush on Tony Stark for decades now. She doubts she’ll get another chance to meet him in her lifetime.

 

**11.**

 

She’s had a crush on Tony Stark since her grad school days. He has his picture on the front of a bunch of magazines, and they call him a wunderkind and a genius, and detail his accomplishments, and really, Blythe should _not_ have a crush on him.

 

He’s a womanizer, and all reports indicate that he’s shallow, and the only depth to him is his genius. He drinks too much and parties too hard, and he builds weapons that kill indiscriminately.

 

(Later, when _she’s_ a weapon, she stops worrying about that so much, but then Stark had stopped making weapons at that point, so it no longer matters.)

 

The truth is that her crush on Stark feels safe. There’s little chance that Blythe will ever meet him, less chance than that he would give her a second look even if he did. She’s neither blind, nor completely gay, and Tony Stark is smoking hot, brilliant, and charming.

 

The truth is that once she goes on the run, and after Stark disappears for three months and comes back a superhero, her crush on him only grows. Playboy billionaires don’t survive that sort of thing unless there’s a little more to them than genius and vast reserves of cash. When he goes toe-to-toe with the Senate, she cheers him on, and wishes she could have been that quick, that _brave_ , with General Ross.

 

When he puts Pepper Potts in charge of his company, and then starts dating her, and it lasts for more than a few minutes—well, she’s more than a little bit in love at that point, but he’s _safer still_.

 

Blythe has no designs on him, and she has no thought that he would do more than acknowledge her presence, if that. She changed into baggy jeans and a shapeless t-shirt as soon as she arrived on the helicarrier and is shown to crew quarters. If the native dress was a disguise in Kolkata, it would only serve to draw attention to her here.

 

She’s pacing on the bridge, trying not to let on to how nervous she is—nervous because she knows that Loki is imprisoned in the cell meant for her. Because she’s not entirely sure that Fury’s endgame isn’t to toss her out an airlock and see if she survives the impact. Because she’s 30,000 feet in the air, and if something goes wrong, she’s probably going to hurt a lot of innocent people before it’s all over.

 

Nervous, because Tony Stark is bound to show up any moment now.

 

When he does, she shrinks into herself a little more, watching as he grandstands, theatrically putting a hand over one eye, asking how Fury does things. The child in her wants to giggle, mostly because she doesn’t trust Fury, and she appreciates that _someone_ is confident enough to poke fun.

 

And then Rogers asks, “Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?”

 

Blythe has been trying to stay quiet, to remain in the background. No one says anything in response to Rogers’ question, though, not even Stark, and she supplies, “He’d have to heat the cube to a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier.”

 

She flinches, because she hadn’t meant to speak, but then Stark says in a coaxing tone, “Unless Selvig has figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect.”

 

It’s a softball, and it’s like Stark _wants_ her to participate. She can’t help but respond, “Well, if he could do that, he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet.”

 

Stark smiles at her, and Blythe discovers that expression is rather devastating in person. “Finally, someone who speaks English.”

 

Rogers mutters, “Is that what just happened?” but Blythe isn’t paying him much attention.

 

Stark is coming over, and he’s shaking her hand, staring at her with an alarming intensity. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Banner,” he says. “Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”

 

She honestly has no idea how to respond to that. Blythe feels flayed, laid bare. Stark is the first person in years who knows her work, _any_ of her work, in nuclear physics. He’s also the first to openly acknowledge her infirmity, and he does so with a startling frankness, and—if she doesn’t miss her guess—open admiration.

 

Blythe realizes that she’s let a little too much time go by, and she snatches her hand back with a muttered, “Thanks.”

 

“Dr. Banner is only here to track the cube,” Fury says, and Blythe tunes him out. She doesn’t trust SHIELD, and chances are that if he’s talking about her purpose here, he’s lying.

 

Blythe will track the cube, and she’ll work with Tony Stark to do so, and she will be a professional and an adult about the whole business.

 

“Shall we play, Dr. Banner?” Stark asks, motioning her to take the lead in a gentlemanly fashion.

 

Blythe falters but recovers quickly. “Of course, Mr. Stark.”

 

Stark lets her lead the way to the lab, and then he says, “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable. You mind getting started without me?”

 

It’s probably not meant to be suggestive. In fact, Blythe is certain that she should take his words at face value, but she can feel her face heat. “No problem,” she replies, ducking her head, hoping that he doesn’t notice.

 

She knows it’s a false hope, but still. She’s hanging on to every last shred of optimism she has right now.

 

Blythe begins scanning Loki’s scepter and works on getting her emotions under control. The energy the scepter gives off is very like gamma radiation, and has the same signature as the tesseract. For the first time in years, Blythe gets to do real science again, and she’d probably enjoy it a lot more if she weren’t so on edge.

 

Stark rejoins her a short time later, now wearing black cargo pants and a Metallica t-shirt. “How are we doing?”

 

“Interesting gamma signatures,” she admits. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to do this sort of thing.”

 

“You should come by Stark Tower sometime,” Stark says. “Ten floors of R&D. It’s like Candyland. You’d love it.”

 

She pauses. “Are you—offering me a job?”

 

Stark raises an eyebrow. “Hm, I suppose I am. I’d have done it years ago, but you weren’t exactly on my radar. Why didn’t you ever apply with Stark Industries, by the way?”

 

“All appearances to the contrary, I wasn’t interested in building weapons,” she replies.

 

Stark shrugs. “Weapons were never our only product.”

 

Blythe huffs. “Maybe, but what else would you have done with a nuclear physicist?”

 

“You’re not _just_ a nuclear physicist,” Stark says with a knowing look. “You’ve got master’s degrees in how many other fields?”

 

She shrugs. “Three.”

 

“And according to SHIELD, you’ve been working as a doctor for the last year,” Stark says. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of into saving the world now. There has to be some project you want to work on that would fit our new mission.”

 

There are at least a dozen, Blythe thinks. With the things she’s seen over the last few years, she has an intimate knowledge of how people in the rest of the world live, particularly the poorest of the poor. The problem is that none of her projects will make money, and therefore, are unlikely to be funded.

 

“We’ve got plenty of projects that are going to make us rich, so making money isn’t the issue,” Stark adds, apparently reading her mind. “You could work on projects that will make a real difference.”

 

“Better anti-malarial treatments,” she says immediately. “Ways to ensure clean water cheaply. Ways to purify water that anybody can access. A means to clean up pollutants from soil and water. Better sustainable farming techniques. I could go on.”

 

“I hope you do,” Stark replies. “And you know, there are ways to take your ideas and make money off them, mostly by making rich bastards pay for the privilege of using them.”

 

That idea appeals to her sense of justice. “Yeah?”

 

“Absolutely,” Stark replies. “Plus, I can promise a stress-free work environment: no one hassling you, your own lab space, no surprises.”

 

She yelps when Stark pokes her in the side with an electric prod, and Stark leans in close, nose-to-nose with her. “You really have a handle on this, don’t you?”

 

Blythe does and she doesn’t. She’s learned by necessity to hang onto her control during the ordinary irritations that life throws at her; it’s the unexpected, the painful, and the traumatic experiences that cause her trouble.

 

Apparently, getting poked by an electric prod in the lab doesn’t count. Maybe because she feels strangely safe with Tony Stark.

 

And then, of course, Rogers has to come in and ruin it.

 

There’s no reason to dislike Rogers, really. He seems to be exactly what he appears to be—upright, all-American, and the perfect specimen of a man. Blythe knows what the serum did for him, how it changed him, but he seems to be a generally good guy.

 

But fuck, she’s jealous, because he’s this tall, _perfect_ guy, the serum having amplified all of his good qualities, while it had brought out the worst in Blythe.

 

Plus, she can’t help but compare his response to her with Stark’s: Rogers ignores her infirmity—except for how he doesn’t, and Stark accepts it.

 

And now Rogers insists on walking on eggshells around her, and Stark seems intent on bringing her into the conversation about how Fury is probably lying to all of them.

 

Blythe doesn’t want any part of it, because _of course_ Fury is lying, and he has a cage waiting for her, and she doesn’t know if she can trust either Stark or Rogers to get her out of it if it comes to that.

 

But then Stark says, “Banner? Help me out here.”

 

She sighs. “Loki’s comment about a warm light for all mankind was meant for you,” she says, looking at Stark. “But why wouldn’t Fury come to you with the tesseract to begin with? You’re the only name in clean energy right now, and you consult with SHIELD. Why wouldn’t he call you in?”

 

Stark shrugs. “An intelligence organization that doesn’t like intelligence. Historically, not awesome.”

 

Blythe hitches a shoulder. “It’s a good bet Fury’s building weapons.”

 

Rogers looks betrayed. “Why would he do that?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Because that’s what men like him _do_. They take technology, and then they make weapons out of it. They take people, and they use them the same way. I don’t know how things worked seventy years ago, Captain Rogers, but that’s how it works now.”

 

Rogers seems taken aback. “Dr. Banner—”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Stark puts in, drawing Rogers’ attention back to himself, which is something of a relief. “I have a bug digging up all of Fury’s dirt. We’ll know what he was doing with the tesseract soon enough.”

 

Rogers frowns. “I think I might find some answers sooner than that,” he says and stalks out.

 

“You okay?” Stark asks quietly.

 

“That cage for Loki was meant for me,” she says. “I’m sure you know that.”

 

Stark’s gaze sharpens. “You know I consult with SHIELD, right?”

 

Blythe frowns. “Of course.”

 

“I can make your continued freedom a requirement of my consulting fee,” Stark says. “Actually, since I waived my fee, I can probably ask for anything.”

 

Blythe stares at him. “And what do you want in return?”

 

“Well, if you agree to come work with me, that would be great,” Stark replies. “But that’s only if you want, and I’d pay you a competitive salary.”

 

Blythe shakes her head to clear it. “No, I mean, what do you _want_?”

 

“I want to save the world,” Stark replies. “I think you can help me do that, but that’s not going to happen if you’re in a cage.”

 

She’s still having a hard time parsing that. “Mr. Stark—”

 

“I think you can call me Tony,” he replies. “After all, you’ll be suiting up with the rest of us.”

 

Blythe snorts. “It doesn’t work that way for me. I don’t get a suit of armor.”

 

“Then what is it like?” Stark asks, sounding honestly curious.

 

Blythe has never tried to put it into words before, and she searches for the right ones. “I’m exposed, like a nerve. It’s a nightmare.”

 

“Well, maybe when the times comes, you’ll be right there with the rest of us,” Stark says.

 

Blythe can’t help but snort. “You might not enjoy that.”

 

“And you just might,” Stark replies.

 

The thing is, Blythe knows that he might be right about that. The one time that the transformation had felt even slightly good had been when those men attacked her. She welcomed it for the protection it provided, and she emerged unscathed.

 

She’s fairly sure they hadn’t, but she doesn’t feel guilt. She _had_ warned them, and if they had been willing to rape her, they had probably done it to other women, or would have given the chance.

 

Blythe saves her pity for others, for those who don’t deserve the wrath of the monster that lives inside her.

 

Working with Stark is easier than she expects it to be. She’s used to men taking over, subtly—or not so subtly—edging her out, refusing to acknowledge her contributions.

 

Stark does the opposite, and as they work on finding the tesseract, as information about Fury’s secret projects comes to light, Blythe relaxes completely.

 

She really should know better, as things go to hell soon after.

 

Fury lies to them, of course, and Rogers brings in one of the weapons as proof, while the tension in the room ratchets up by degrees.

 

Blythe backs off, attempting to stay unobtrusive. If she could leave the ship, she would. She doesn’t _belong_ here. She isn’t a team player, and neither is the monster.

 

People are shouting, and it reminds her a little too much of her childhood. She fights the urge to crawl under a table or to flee.

 

She’s breathing heavily, and Romanoff says, “Dr. Banner, maybe you should remove yourself.”

 

“I was in Kolkata,” Blythe snaps. “I was fairly well removed.”

 

“Dr. Banner, maybe a quieter location,” Fury suggests.

 

“Where?” she demands. “I think you rented out my room.”

 

“Now, Dr. Banner,” Fury begins in a placating way.

 

She shakes her head. “You think you might have to kill me, but you can’t, I _know_.”

 

They’re all staring at her now, the room having gone silent. “Do you think you’re the first to try?” she demands. “I’ve been shot at, stabbed, starved, and beaten. Men have tried to rape me and suffered the consequences. If you think dropping me from 30,000 feet is going to make a dent, then you’re welcome to try.”

 

She doesn’t say that she would almost welcome it. Even if she were dead, at least she’d have concrete proof that she _could_ be killed. Posthumous proof, but she’s pretty sure they’ll use her body for science.

 

Granted, Blythe could have conducted a clinical trial by eating a bullet, but after so many people tried killing her, she’d felt honor-bound to survive.

 

She hates the pity on their faces, hates the idea that she might be weak, that the monster inside her is the only strength she has remaining.

 

“We’re supposed to be a team,” Rogers protests. “We’re—we’re supposed to watch each other’s backs.”

 

“We’re not a team,” Blythe says bitterly. “We’re a chemical mixture that creates a time bomb.”

 

“We don’t have to be,” Rogers objects.

 

Blythe laughs. “Right.”

 

The monitor beeps at them, and Blythe turns her attention to the scientific data. “Uh, guys—”

 

That’s about all she manages to get out when the helicarrier shudders with a direct hit, and then the floor drops out from under her.

 

She knows she’s going to lose control when she lands. The shock and the fear are too great for anything else.

 

Romanoff tries to comfort her, to promise that everything will be fine, but she already knows that it isn’t going to make a difference.

 

Blythe is going to destroy everything around her, and Fury’s going to have a really good reason to put her in that cage.

 

**12.**

 

In the end, she joins the battle because she knows her capacity for destruction, and there is a threat to be destroyed. That, and Tony Stark had been the first person to see _all_ of her, and had made her feel safe. She has a vested interest in ensuring his continued survival.

 

The security guard who gives her a set of clothing politely averts his eyes while she pulls on a spare uniform. “You got somewhere you need to be?” he asks.

 

She buttons up the shirt, wishing for a bra. “Yeah, maybe. Yes. Stark Tower.”

 

“You can use my ride,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Thanks,” she replies. There are a lot of times she’s been surprised by the kindness of strangers, and this is one of those times. He doesn’t have anything to gain by helping her, and yet he’s giving her clothing and a ride. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

The man shrugs. “Figure it’s my job to look after this building, and anybody who crash lands through the ceiling.”

 

Blythe smiles. “Well, thank you. I’ll try to get the bike back to you.”

 

“Good luck,” he says.

 

In the end, Blythe saves Tony Stark’s life, and helps save the world, and for a day that starts out pretty shitty, it ends up being kind of great.

 

**13.**

 

She comes back to herself when she’s lying on the couch in Stark Tower’s penthouse. She’s still wearing the tattered remains of the spare uniform, but there’s a blanket spread over her.

 

It’s the first time she’s woken after a transformation and has felt safe, and she’s not entirely sure what to do with it.

 

“Hey, there,” Stark says, his head appearing over the back of the couch. “So, we’re going out for shawarma as soon as the others finish delivering Loki to SHIELD, and I think I’ve found clothing that will fit, but you should try it on to see.”

 

Blythe blinks at him, thinking that Stark sounds a little manic, although she probably doesn’t know him well enough to tell whether he’s acting strangely. “Okay?”

 

“Come on,” Stark says, leading her back towards a bedroom that’s as palatial as the brief glimpse she’s gotten of the rest of the apartment. Well, penthouse. She’s pretty sure they’re at the top of the Tower, given what she’d seen out the window, and the little she remembers from the battle.

 

Her memories are fractured, incomplete, as they always are after a transformation, but she thinks this time had been easier. At least, she’s pretty sure she remembers thrashing Loki, and catching a falling Iron Man.

 

“Thanks, by the way,” Stark says.

 

“For what?”

 

“Saving my life,” he replies easily. “I have been reliably informed that you broke my fall before anybody realized that I was unconscious. And suit or no suit, that fall would have killed me.”

 

She’s not quite sure how to respond, so she settles on a neutral, “No problem.”

 

“So, this seems like a weird question given everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, but what do you want me to call you?” Stark asks.

 

Blythe stalls out, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her, standing in the doorway to what’s obviously the master suite. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Well, you sign everything R.B. Banner,” Stark points out. “If you prefer Dr. Banner, that’s what I’ll go with, but—you saved my life. I feel like we should maybe be on a first name basis. Which is, by the way, my way of telling you to call me Tony.”

 

There’s a small part of her that is insanely thrilled by the idea of being on a first name basis with Tony Stark. A larger part of her has absolutely no idea what to tell him. She’d accepted her mother’s choice of names ages ago, when she’d been a child in the hospital, newly orphaned and grieving.

 

That name, in some ways, has been even more of a burden the past few years, because it had remained so far from the truth.

 

She’s beginning to think that it might not always be the case, though.

 

“Blythe,” she replies, with a self-deprecating smile. “My friends call my Blythe—at least, if I had any.”

 

Stark—no, Tony—gives her a sharp look, like he had when he’d complimented her work and the monster under her skin, or when he’d poked her with that electric prod. And then his grin comes, quick and bright, and he says, “Blythe, then.”

 

Somehow, she ends up wearing his clothing, which doesn’t fit very well, but at least covers more skin than the tattered remains of the uniform. Somehow, she ends up going back to the Tower that night, to sleep in an unused guest room, and wakes up the next morning with brand new clothes in a pile outside her door.

 

 _Somehow_ , she winds up in Central Park to see Loki and Thor back to Asgard with the tesseract, and realizes that she’s been through a battle with these people, and if they’re not friends, they’re at the very least comrades.

 

Somehow, Blythe forgets all about Pepper Potts.

 

**14.**

 

Meeting Pepper Potts for the first time is, in a word, awkward.

 

To be fair, Blythe is fairly certain that if she’d come home to find her boyfriend shacking up with another woman, however platonically, she’d have come unglued, which just goes to show that Ms. Potts is far cooler than Blythe will ever be.

 

That being said, there’s really no easy way to explain Blythe’s presence in the penthouse after they’ve seen Loki, Thor, and the Tesseract back to Asgard. No way other than the fact that Tony says, “Blythe, you got a place to stay?”

 

And, unthinking, she replies, “No, not really.”

 

“I’ve got a spare room,” Tony offers.

 

She hesitates. “I don’t want to impose. I could—”

 

“Go back to SHIELD?” Tony asks archly. “You’ve seen how much room I have.”

 

Blythe should say no, she really should, but Tony is the first person in years to look at her and see _her_. “I—if you insist.”

 

“I absolutely insist,” Tony says grandly. “You’re going to work for me, right?”

 

Blythe has absolutely no idea what else she’d do, other than maybe go back to Kolkata and continue her work as a doctor. But the last couple of days, actually being able to do science again, being around _Tony Stark_ —it’s addictive.

 

She knows better, but she doesn’t always have the best self-control. “I—yes. But I want to be able to veto my own projects.”

 

“Oh, my dear Dr. Banner,” Tony says grandly. “You can _choose_ your own projects.”

 

It’s probably too good to be true, but Blythe has never had an offer like this one, and she finds that she can’t pass it up.

 

A few of the labs in Stark Tower have been completed, and Tony orders pizza that evening and they talk science—artificial intelligence, and thermonuclear physics and CERN and the Higgs-Boson.

 

Tony is unlike any other man she’s ever met in that he isn’t threatened by her intelligence, and seems to delight in her ability to keep up. He doesn’t insinuate that she’s smart for a woman, or that she’s odd for choosing physics as a career. He actually picks her brain, and does so in a way that she’s not worried he’s going to steal her work.

 

Blythe goes to bed that night feeling safe in a way that she hasn’t in years.

 

That feeling fades slightly the next morning when she realizes that she has nothing clean to wear, and she’s probably going to need to do something about that. As a result, she’s feeling gauche and rumpled when she emerges from the guestroom, and is confronted by the presence of Pepper Potts, who is one of the most gorgeous, put-together women Blythe’s ever seen.

 

She half-expects Tony to be embarrassed by her presence, but he acts like it’s completely normal to take in strays, and maybe it is.

 

“Dr. Banner needed a place to stay,” Tony says, introducing them. “I asked her to work for Stark Industries. I told you about that.”

 

Ms. Potts’ smile is warmer than Blythe has any right to expect. “We’re happy to have you on board, Dr. Banner.”

 

“You can call me Blythe,” she offers.

 

“Pepper,” she replies.

 

Blythe decides that now is a good time to escape. “I should leave you to get—reacquainted. Sorry for intruding.”

 

She catches the look that Tony sends to Pepper, and Pepper shrugs. “No, if you’re going to be staying with us, I’d like to get to know you better.”

 

Blythe winces. “I can, um, get a hotel room.”

 

She can’t, actually, because she doesn’t have much money, and if this isn’t the place for her, then she needs to buy a plane ticket out of here.

 

Maybe she _should_ go back to India. She liked it there; she’d been happy.

 

“No, absolutely not,” Pepper says definitively. “You wouldn’t be able to find anything in Manhattan anyway, and there’s no sense when we have the room.” She shoots Tony a look that Blythe can’t read. “The Tower is 12% mine anyway.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Really? You’re not going to drop that? I almost died, you know.”

 

“You’re not really helping your case,” Pepper says. “Speaking of, I wanted to thank you, Blythe. Tony said you were the one who saved his life.”

 

“Well, he is the first person to offer me a job in years without trying to coerce me.”

 

“Two geniuses trying to save the world are always better than one,” Tony says lightly, but Blythe gets the impression that she might have hurt his feelings.

 

They’re friends of a sort, and she amends, “Plus, I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose one.”

 

Tony’s grin is genuine at that comment, and something in Pepper’s face softens. “Neither does Tony, for that matter.”

 

“I can cook?” Blythe offers hesitantly. “If you have food, that is. I mean, I’m sure you do, but if you’re hungry?”

 

“We actually don’t have much in the way of food,” Pepper admits ruefully. “But we can probably order something in.”

 

Brunch consists of bagels and lox, and Pepper says, “Is there anything you need, Blythe? I know Tony will probably lock you into the lab nonstop, but Tony said you just came back from India.”

 

Blythe hesitates.

 

“On me,” Tony says. “Call it an advance on your salary.”

 

“Which we still have to talk about,” Pepper inserts. “But Stark Industries is very competitive.”

 

Blythe doesn’t say that just about any salary would be better than what she’s made in the past. Even what she’d made with the defense contract hadn’t been all that impressive. “I don’t have much in the way of clothes right now,” she admits.

 

“We can take care of that,” Pepper says. “Although I would suggest that going out might not be a good idea right now, given that your face is all over the news. But we can order it in.”

 

Blythe has absolutely no idea if that’s a good idea or not, but if her face is all over the news, she doesn’t want to brave the public. “Uh, sure.”

 

“Great, now that we have that settled, I’ll have legal put together your employment contract,” Pepper says. “Tony, I’m going to need you.”

 

Blythe knows when she’s been dismissed. “Thank you both for everything,” she says. “I think I’m just going to get caught up on my sleep.”

 

She’s not really sure if she can stay here while remaining the third wheel, but at least she has a place to sleep for right now, and a job offer, and maybe a friend.

 

**15.**

 

It turns out that Blythe doesn’t need to worry about being a third wheel. After a couple of weeks, Pepper and Tony leave for Malibu, and Blythe immerses herself in her work.

 

In fact, Blythe would really prefer to bury herself in her work. She gets to do pure science, in a high tech lab that rivals any other facility she’s been in. She doesn’t mind spending time with Tony; he’s quickly becoming a friend, and someone she trusts, at least in a limited sense.

 

She wouldn’t mind keeping the rest of the world at bay, though. Too bad the rest of the world hasn’t gotten the message.

 

“Dr. Banner, Captain Rogers is here to see you,” Jarvis says.

 

Blythe is still getting used to Jarvis, but she likes him. Oddly enough, he feels like a real person to her, even if she can’t see him. “Does he know I’m here?” she asks, wondering if it’s possible to hide out until he gets bored and leaves.

 

Tony isn’t here right now, since he’s currently spending most of his time in Malibu, so there’s no buffer between her and Rogers.

 

There’s a pause, and Jarvis says, almost apologetically, “You’re really never anywhere else. And you didn’t tell me that you weren’t at home.”

 

Blythe sighs. “In the future, is it possible for me to be ‘not at home’ until you check with me?”

 

“Of course, Dr. Banner. I apologize.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies, feeling a little guilty for making _Jarvis_ feel guilty. If AIs can feel guilt. She doesn’t really know, but she actually believes it might be possible with Tony’s AI. “Just check with me in the future. Where is Captain Rogers?”

 

“In the Penthouse, doctor,” Jarvis replies, and he’s always perfectly appropriate when he refers to her, always using her title.

 

It’s really nice.

 

Blythe saves her work and shuts down her computer, since she has no idea how long this is going to take, and then heads out of the lab to the penthouse.

 

She knows that she could hide out in the lab, tell Jarvis to inform Rogers she’s unavailable, in the middle of a project, or otherwise indisposed.

 

But Blythe has learned the hard way over the years that sometimes giving a man what he wants up front—a little time, a brief conversation, a smile, a cup of coffee—will result in her being able to ignore him from there on out.

 

Rogers is standing in the middle of the living area, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, a blue t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. “Dr. Banner. It’s good to see you again.”

 

She can feel his eyes on her, weighing and measuring, and maybe that makes sense, since she is on his team. Sort of. It’s not like he’s mentally undressing her or anything like that, but more like he’s trying to determine whether she’s fit.

 

“Captain Rogers,” she says quietly. “Tony isn’t here. He went back to Malibu.”

 

“That’s fine,” he replies. “I was actually hoping to see you. Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton, and I are going out to dinner. We thought you might like to join us.”

 

Blythe isn’t sure there’s anything she wants to do _less_ , but she’d like to be able to trust these people, at least a little bit.

 

Maybe if she gets to know them, they’ll be on her side if the issue of the cage comes up again.

 

“Sure,” she replies. “Just, uh, let me change my clothes.”

 

For a day in the lab, she hadn’t bothered to do more than throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt. She might not have bothered changing, but there’s a coffee stain on the front, and she’d prefer not to be seen with Captain America while looking like a slob.

 

Blythe may never be a fashion plate, but she does have a certain amount of self-respect.

 

There are days when she misses India, and the clothing she wore there. The saris had been a way to blend in, but they had also been comfortable, and she hadn’t worried about being fashionable.

 

Now, she dithers in front of her closet before deciding just to pull on a button-up shirt and leave the jeans. She runs a brush through her hair, wondering if she should cut it short again, finally just pulling it back into a ponytail.

 

Rogers is waiting for her in the living room, and he asks, “Ready to go?”

 

Blythe nods and follows him onto the elevator. “Where are we going?”

 

“There’s a little café Agent Romanoff recommended,” Rogers replies. “I have my bike, or we could take the subway.”

 

Blythe thinks about sitting behind Rogers on a motorcycle and really isn’t comfortable with the idea. Then again, she won’t have to make awkward conversation if she’s on the back of a motorcycle.

 

“The bike is fine,” she replies.

 

It’s been years since she was this close to a man, and she feels the heat from Rogers’ body and the hardness of his muscles.

 

And it doesn’t do anything for her, other than remind her that she’s starved for human touch.

 

The ride to the café isn’t a long one, thankfully, and she climbs off and hands the helmet back to Rogers. “Thanks.”

 

Romanoff and Barton are already there and have a table in a corner, and Rogers waves and heads over to join them, Blythe following more slowly. The only remaining seat is one that puts her back to the room, and she hesitates.

 

Resigning herself to a very uncomfortable meal, she sits down.

 

“Hey, doc,” Barton says. “Good to see you again.”

 

She hasn’t had much interaction with him, but he seems like a nice enough guy when Loki isn’t controlling him. “Same here,” she replies. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Little rough around the edges some days, but not bad. How’s Stark treating you?” Barton asks.

 

She hitches a shoulder. “I pretty much have the run of the place right now, with him in Malibu.”

 

“You staying at the Tower?” Barton asks with friendly interest.

 

“For now,” she replies noncommittally.

 

The truth is that she feels a little self-conscious staying in the Tower, although she does have her own apartment now. Tony is paying her a handsome salary, but she hasn’t been able to muster up the energy to look for a place in the city.

 

And considering how many hours she’s spending in the lab, it’s easier to stay in the building.

 

The others begin talking about SHIELD business, and Blythe wonders again why they’d asked her here. She has nothing in common with any of them, as far as she can tell, and she wants nothing more than to be back in her lab.

 

She tunes out of the conversation, going over a complicated equation in her head that has been giving her trouble.

 

“Dr. Banner,” Romanoff says, in the tone of voice that tells her it’s not the first time.

 

Blythe blinks. “Sorry, what?”

 

“I asked if you were enjoying New York,” Romanoff says.

 

Blythe could feel her face heat. “I haven’t seen much of it,” she admits.

 

“Well, shit, doc,” Barton says. “We can fix that.”

 

Blythe shifts uncomfortably. “It’s really fine. I’m enjoying my lab.”

 

“You should get out,” Rogers says. “I’ve been getting used to the city again. You could come with me.” He probably thinks he’s being encouraging, but Blythe feels patronized, and a little bit cornered.

 

“That’s, that’s a really nice offer,” she manages.

 

“It’ll be fun,” Rogers says. “I’ve started a list of things I missed out on over the last 70 years.”

 

Blythe really isn’t sure how to respond to that. She kind of wants to make a crack about it being a long list, but they’re not friends.

 

“Must be a long list, Cap,” Barton says with a smirk.

 

“Long enough, and getting longer,” Rogers replies good-naturedly.

 

To deflect, Blythe glances at Romanoff. “Is New York your home base?”

 

“Only temporarily,” Romanoff replies. “I’m heading back to D.C. soon.”

 

There’s a part of Blythe that’s relieved by the news. She has no doubt that SHIELD could still get to her, but if Romanoff is in D.C., Blythe might be able to dodge additional team dinners.

 

She can hope, anyway.

 

“What are you working on for Stark?” Romanoff asks.

 

Blythe stiffens. “I’m not working on anything _for_ Stark. I have my own projects.”

 

An uncomfortable silence descends over the table, interrupted by their server showing up to take their orders.

 

“I’m sure it’s nice to be able to work on your own projects,” Romanoff says evenly when the server leaves. “I didn’t realize.”

 

Blythe sighs. “No, I’m sorry. The last time I worked on someone else’s project—it didn’t exactly go well.”

 

Romanoff nods. “It’s good that you have the opportunity to focus on your own project then.”

 

“What is it that you’re working on?” Rogers asks.

 

“Clean water,” Blythe admits. “And cheap ways to ensure that everyone can have access to it.”

 

“There are a lot of places in the world that need clean water,” Barton says. “Sounds like a great project.”

 

“It really does,” Rogers says earnestly.

 

Blythe smiles, relaxing slightly. “Well, it’s still in the beginning stages at this point.”

 

The conversation flows a little more easily after that, as the topic changes to current events and the cleanup efforts in New York.

 

“I went and volunteered for a few days, but I got tired of all the stares,” Rogers admits.

 

“You must have been recognized before,” Barton says. “During the war, I mean.”

 

Rogers shrugs. “There were newsreels, but that was different. Not everybody saw those, and once I was in the news, I was in Europe, fighting Hydra.”

 

Blythe has a curious sense of dislocation, looking at Rogers, who appears to be a couple of decades younger than her, talking about World War II.

 

“I guess that would be a big change,” Blythe offers.

 

“Probably the biggest,” Rogers admits. “I mean, sure there are other changes, and the food is a lot better now, but having people randomly recognize me on the street is strange.”

 

“I guess that’s one nice thing about turning green,” Blythe comments. “No one ever recognizes me.”

 

“Being a spy helps that, too,” Romanoff says with a smile.

 

Rogers glances at Barton. “What about you?”

 

“I’m a sniper,” Barton replies. “I stay out of sight.”

 

Rogers grimaces. “Well, I guess it’s a little late for regrets now.”

 

Their food arrives, and Blythe’s sandwich is delicious, roasted eggplant and red peppers layered with melted mozzarella and slightly wilted arugula. Romanoff had ordered the same thing, and Barton and Rogers both ordered burgers.

 

Just like after the battle, when they’d gone for shawarma, eating together eases tensions. Blythe doesn’t have to think about things to say, she can just enjoy her food. The others’ enjoyment of their own meals makes them seem more human.

 

Eating together, Blythe has learned over the years, is one of the most primal bonding activities available. Everyone has to eat, and it provides a common ground.

 

“Will you stay in New York?” Barton asks her as they finish their meals.

 

She hesitates, realizing that she could lie to them, say she’s staying, and then leave. SHIELD might find her again, but maybe not. Maybe she could elude them this time. She could do a better job of staying off the grid. India might be out, but she could find another country to disappear in.

 

She could, but she doesn’t. “For now, anyway.”

 

“New York isn’t a bad city to call home, Dr. Banner,” Rogers says.

 

She hesitates. “You know, my friends call me Blythe.”

 

“That’s a beautiful name,” Rogers replies with a smile, and it’s a little patronizing, but she recognizes that it’s also well meaning.

 

Blythe hesitates. “My mom gave it to me.”

 

Romanoff meets her eyes, and Blythe can see that Romanoff knows what had happened to her mother. There’s sympathy there, something Blythe wouldn’t have expected from her.

 

“Your mother must have been a hopeful person,” Romanoff says quietly.

 

Blythe smiles. “I think she was.”

 

She’s beginning to believe that hope might not be misplaced.

 

**16.**

 

She meets the others for dinner or lunch semi-frequently after that, at least for the first month, which is when Rogers and Romanoff both get assigned to D.C. Since the two of them are usually the ones to invite her out, she doesn’t expect to see much of Barton after that, but he shows up at her apartment the following week with a six-pack of beer and a DVD of _Dog Cops_.

 

“Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”

 

“Thought you might want some company,” he replies lightly.

 

She doesn’t, not really, but the haunted look in Barton’s eyes suggests that _he_ does. “Sure, come on in. I didn’t think you knew where my apartment was.”

 

“I’m a spy, remember?” Barton asks.

 

Blythe raises her eyebrows. “Oddly enough, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

 

“If it helps, you were one of the slipperiest targets SHIELD has tracked,” Barton offers.

 

Blythe frowns. “Fury said SHIELD never lost me.”

 

Barton shrugs. “Not in a general sense, anyway. We usually had an idea of where you were located, but you gave me the slip in India, and that’s not easy to do.”

 

Blythe looks away. “You were the one who tracked me to my favorite chai vendor. I had to relocate to Kolkata after that.”

 

“Am I supposed to apologize?” Barton asks, and he’s amused, the bastard.

 

“Well, you could,” Blythe says, but now she’s smiling in spite of herself, and she says, “You’d better sit down. Are you hungry?”

 

“I could eat,” Barton replies.

 

She ends up making cheesy scrambled eggs and toast for the two of them, and they watch _Dog Cops_ , and Blythe feels more relaxed than she usually does.

 

“Why did you come over tonight?” she asks him after a few episodes, when she’s had a beer and feels brave enough to ask.

 

Barton is quiet for a long moment. “Because Coulson was a good friend, and my actions got him killed, and you’re one of the few people I know who doesn’t look at me like I’m a monster.”

 

“You’re not a monster,” Blythe replies. “And I’m sorry about your friend.”

 

Barton gives her a look. “You’re not going to tell me that it wasn’t my fault?”

 

“Would it help if I did?”

 

“No,” he replies. “Because it was still my hands, and my bow.”

 

Blythe nudges him. “Then why should I tell you something you’re not going to believe anyway?”

 

“You don’t mind me stopping by, do you?” Barton asks.

 

“No, it’s nice to have company,” Blythe replies, and is surprised to find that she means it.

 

Barton settles back onto the couch next to her, and Blythe takes a bit of comfort in his warm, solid presence.

 

It seems that she has one friend in New York.

 

**17.**

 

“Are you still not sleeping?” Blythe asks, seeing the dark circles under Tony’s eyes clearly on the screen, even though 3000 miles separates them.

 

Tony shrugs off the question, turning back to the gauntlet he’s working on in his Malibu workshop. “Sleep is for the weak.”

 

“And still necessary for a person to function,” Blythe replies, amused in spite of herself. “Did you have the chance to look over my equations?”

 

“Yes, and I think I’m a little jealous because you actually managed to increase the power output on your solar panels by five percent,” Tony replies, but he wears a smile. “You realize that this is going to be a huge step forward in our ability to really make use of solar power.”

 

Blythe frowns, twisting a bit on her lab stool. “I think I can tweak it a little bit to get a better result. We still need to solve the production problem, and I’d like to increase the durability.”

 

“Banner, take the win,” Tony scolds. “We’ll get there.”

 

Blythe isn’t used to this kind of professional collaboration, not with a man. She’d had it with Betty, but she’s not used to this sort of support from anyone who isn’t Betty, or another woman.

 

“I just want to earn my paycheck,” Blythe protests.

 

“Which you do every day,” Tony replies. “You need to learn how to strut, Banner. You’re a genius _and_ a bona fide superhero.”

 

“I think that’s you,” Blythe counters, but she’s pleased nonetheless.

 

Tony snorts. “So, what’s next?”

 

“Still working on that article,” Blythe admits. “I’m having a little trouble with the middle section.”

 

“Send it to me, and I’ll look over it,” Tony replies. “Please tell me that you haven’t been all work and no play.”

 

Blythe looks into the camera. “Oh, unlike you? Have you even gone Christmas shopping for Pepper yet?”

 

Tony grimaces. “Is that coming up?”

 

“Uh, Tony, you have three weeks,” Blythe reminds him. “And I’m pretty sure that telling Pepper she can buy whatever she likes on you isn’t going to work this time.”

 

Tony frowns. “She told you about that?”

 

“We talk,” Blythe says, although she’s still a little surprised by that fact. Pepper has been very kind, and they talk a couple of times a week, although mostly about business. Blythe still feels completely awkward around her, but there’s something about Pepper that reminds her of Betty. “Word of advice, I recommend something sparkly.”

 

“I was thinking a giant stuffed bunny,” Tony replies.

 

Blythe blinks at the camera, waiting for him to laugh, but he seems completely serious. “Are you kidding me?”

 

“Not okay?” Tony hazards.

 

Blythe sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose to stave off a headache. “Well, if she were _twelve_ that would probably be a great gift. Stark, she’s the love of your life. Get her something that sparkles.”

 

Tony’s expression sharpens. “I guess you are a woman.”

 

“Oh, thank you very much,” Blythe mutters.

 

“I mean, I know you’re a woman, it’s just not the first thing I think of!” Tony protests. “Your brain is the most impressive thing about you.”

 

Blythe just stares at him. Imagine, the great Tony Stark, playboy extraordinaire, is digging himself into a hole. With _her_.

 

“Oh, shit,” Tony says. “Can we forget the last five minutes?”

 

“Only if you promise to buy Pepper something nice,” Blythe counters.

 

Tony laughs. “Yeah, I promise. Thanks.”

 

“Go away,” Blythe replies. “I’m busy.”

 

But she’s smiling as she ends the call. Even when he’s being an ass, Blythe still likes him. She’s not sure what that says about her.

 

~~~~~

 

She knows about the Mandarin, of course. Blythe tries to keep up with the news, and the bombings have been front and center on pretty much every nightly broadcast. No one knows who he is or what he wants, other than his vague threats towards Western ideals. There’s no trace of explosives, or of the actual bombers, and people are freaking out.

 

Blythe finds it worrisome, but it’s not something she can do anything about, so she puts it out of her mind.

 

And then the news hits: Happy Hogan is injured, Tony challenges the Mandarin, and his mansion gets blown up.

 

Blythe has no idea how to feel about that. Tony is her friend, she still has a crush on him, and she’s starting a tentative friendship with Pepper as well. He’s kind of her boss, and he’s Iron Man, and he appreciates her intelligence.

 

She doesn’t like the idea of a world without Tony in it.

 

There’s nothing she can do from New York, though, and she doesn’t feel as though she has the right to demand answers. She sits by the phone and waits for word, unable to sleep, barely able to eat, at least until Jarvis says, “Dr. Banner, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts are fine. Mr. Stark requests that you place yourself at his disposal as he needs your assistance in curing Ms. Potts.”

 

“Curing her?” Blythe asks. “Of what?”

 

“The Extremis virus,” Jarvis replies. “And you’ll have to get additional information from Mr. Stark.”

 

Blythe is still in the dark, but at least she knows that Tony and Pepper are okay for now. She just wishes she had more information as to what to expect so she could get started, rather than waiting.

 

She’s in her lab when Tony comes in, and there’s a part of Blythe that wants to hug him, but that’s not her right, and she’s a little worried about fueling her crush.

 

Blythe doesn’t want to come in between Tony and Pepper, and the first step in that equation is ensuring that she treats Tony as a friend.

 

“How are you?” she asks instead, seeing the bruises on his face, as well as the healing cuts. “How’s Pepper?”

 

Tony shakes his head. “As long as she stays calm, she’ll avoid exploding, but I need you on this one, Blythe. I could probably solve Extremis on my own, but I can do it faster with you.”

 

“Of course,” Blythe agrees immediately. “Whatever you need. You know that.”

 

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “I do know. Thank you. I just—I can’t lose her.”

 

“Then we’ll make sure you don’t,” Blythe says in a reckless promise. “She’ll be fine.”

 

Tony seems to really focus on her for the first time. “Are you okay?”

 

Blythe takes him in and feels the relief fully for the first time. “I’m good.”

 

“I took your advice, by the way,” Tony says. “Thankfully, I hadn’t picked it up yet, because it would be on the bottom of the ocean now.”

 

Blythe frowns. “What advice is that?”

 

“I bought Pepper something sparkly,” Tony says. “I took your advice.”

 

“Oh,” Blythe replies intelligently. “That’s—that’s good.”

 

“Merry Christmas, by the way,” Tony says. “Was it a good one?”

 

Blythe thinks of the news, and wondering whether Tony was alive or dead, and says, “Not particularly, but I’m hoping the New Year is better.”

 

**18.**

 

Now that Tony and Pepper are back, she’s even more grateful for her own apartment. She and Tony work on Extremis non-stop for two weeks before they solve it, but they _do_ solve it.

 

The problem is having Tony around as a physical presence again. She had found it easy to set aside her emotions when their only contact had been sporadic videoconferences.

 

Extended contact just makes her like him more, as a person and not as some genius ideal. God help her, but his intelligence, his concern for Pepper, his way of treating her like a real person just makes her more attracted to him.

 

So, she takes frequent breaks. She does yoga in her apartment and meditates, and reminds herself that she has a good life with work she enjoys, and friends, and a roof over her head. Most days, she’s content with that. She has to be.

 

And then SHIELD falls.

 

She’s been hanging out with Clint a couple of times a week when he’s not on a mission for SHIELD because he’s easy company, and when she’s around Tony and Pepper she feels like a third wheel.

 

Even more so recently, because Blythe can sense that there’s quite a bit of tension between the two of them. While they maintain a polite façade in front of her, she has decades of experience reading people and situations.

 

“Are you dating him?” Tony asks the day before their world changes drastically, when she’s turned down dinner because she’s meeting Clint.

 

The way he asks nettles her, and she replies, “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not dating him. He’s a friend.”

 

“Because you see him a lot,” Tony points out.

 

Blythe rolls her eyes. “I see _you_ a lot, and I’m not dating you.”

 

“Because I’m with Pepper,” Tony counters.

 

“I fail to see what that has to do with Clint and me,” Blythe counters.

 

Tony nudges her. “Because I’m taken and Clint isn’t, and you spend a lot of time with him.”

 

“Clint’s a friend,” she replies. “And you spend a lot of time with Pepper, so I have to find something to do when I’m not working.”

 

Tony frowns. “You seem kind of defensive. Do you like him? Do I need to talk to him for you?”

 

“Oh, my God, Tony!” Blythe bursts out. “You know I like you. We’re friends. But that doesn’t give you leave to pry into every aspect of my life.”

 

Hurt flashes across his face. “I’m sorry. I was pushing.”

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Blythe says. “I’m not—I’m not used to someone caring.”

 

Tony gives her that same, sharp look he’d given her on the helicarrier. “There are a lot of people who care about you.”

 

“I’m not really used to that either,” she admits.

 

A quick, fleeting smile passes across his face. “Neither am I.”

 

“So, I’ll see you later?” she asks tentatively.

 

“Sure, or tomorrow,” Tony says. “Either way.”

 

Blythe hesitates. “Tony—”

 

“Get out of here,” he says, interrupting her. “You’re going to be late for your date.”

 

She avoids correcting him because she knows he’s trying to get a rise out of her, which seems to indicate that he’s probably forgiven her for snapping at him.

 

She’s distracted during dinner, and Clint finally comments, “You don’t seem to be here, doc.”

 

“Stark and I had an argument,” she admits.

 

“Anything you want to talk about?”

 

“Not unless you want to talk about why we’re not dating,” Blythe replies sourly.

 

Clint frowns. “Because you have more sense than that?”

 

“Well, I went with the ‘because we’re friends’ explanation, but you may have a point,” Blythe teases.

 

“Cruel woman,” Clint accuses.

 

“You said it first,” she counters.

 

Clint grimaces. “Good point. So, you think Stark was jealous?”

 

“Why would he be?” Blythe asks. “As he pointed out, he’s with Pepper.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re his BFF,” Clint points out. “You guys have this vibe, like mad scientists, and Tony strikes me as the jealous sort.”

 

“But—”

 

Clint holds up a hand. “Jealous of you spending time with someone who’s not him.”

 

Blythe has to admit that he has a point. “Well, he can get bent,” she mutters.

 

Clint smirks at her. “If you’re going to say that to his face, I want to be there.”

 

His phone chimes, and Clint picks up with an apologetic look sent Blythe’s way. “Yeah? What? No shit?”

 

“What?” Blythe mouths.

 

“Fury got attacked,” Clint mouths back. “No word on his condition.”

 

Blythe grimaces. Fury might not be her favorite person in the world, but at least he’s a known quantity.

 

“The fuck?” Clint asks. “Okay, yeah, heads down. I’ll pass the word to Banner and Stark.”

 

He hangs up, and says, “We may need to cut our dinner short, doc. That was Natasha. She and Steve are on the run, SHIELD seems to be under attack, and she’s a little concerned that we might be targets.”

 

Blythe frowns. “Are you pulling my leg?”

 

“I wish,” Clint says grimly. “Let’s get the check and take off.”

 

Blythe is used to picking up and leaving when there’s an emergency, and she nods. The Tower is the safest possible place right now with its high-tech security. If someone does come after them, that’s where she wants to be.

 

She’s a little surprised that Steve hasn’t called for help, but maybe it makes sense. Tony makes a big splash, no matter where he’s going, and unless there’s an alien army to smash, no one needs Blythe’s greener half.

 

They’d gone to Brooklyn to eat, and Clint says, “Let’s take a cab back. I don’t normally, but I want to minimize our exposure.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Blythe agrees, happy to take his lead in this at least. Besides, putting her in the subway is just a bad idea all the way around, and avoiding that is a good idea.

 

Clint tries three times to hail a cab, and then he says, “A little help here, doc.”

 

“Cabs don’t stop for me,” she objects.

 

Clint gives her a sharp look. “Beg to differ.”

 

Blythe glances down at what she’s wearing, and realizes that he might have a point. When it had just been her in the Tower, she’d defaulted to her usual baggy pants and shirts. But while she doesn’t think she can compete with Tony or Pepper in the “beautiful people” category, she doesn’t want to make them think they’d made a mistake by hiring her either.

 

Today, she’s wearing black trousers and a form-fitting purple sweater, and she’d left her hair down.

 

“Okay, I guess we’ll see,” she replies, and raises her hand. The second cab that’s passing by pulls up in front of them, and Clint gives her an “I told you so” look.

 

In retrospect, Blythe can _totally_ understand why Tony thought she was going out on a date.

 

She sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Point made.”

 

The taxi takes them back to the Tower, and Blythe pays, still feeling the novelty of being able to hand over a wad of cash with a healthy tip without a thought for what she’ll have to give up as a result.

 

Clint follows her into the private elevator that restricts access to the labs and the Penthouse to those cleared for access. “Jarvis, where’s Tony?” Blythe asks once the doors close.

 

“In his lab, Dr. Banner,” Jarvis replies.

 

“We’ll join him if you don’t mind,” Blythe says politely.

 

“Of course.” Jarvis pauses. “I believe you might say he’s in a mood, doctor.”

 

Blythe sighs and ignores the smug look that Clint sends her way. He really is an ass sometimes. “Thanks for the warning. I imagine our news isn’t going to do much to change that.”

 

AC/DC is blasting when Blythe puts her hand on the scanner and leans in for the retina scan. “Dr. Blythe Banner,” she says.

 

Sometimes, she wonders if Tony will ever get into a snit and lock her out, and she has to admit she’s a little worried about it this time. But the door opens easily, and she walks in and says, “Music off.”

 

“Hey!” Tony protests. “What the hell?”

 

“We’ve got a problem,” Clint says, saving Blythe the trouble of explaining. “Natasha called. She and Steve are being chased by SHIELD, or people within SHIELD, and she’s concerned we might be next.”

 

Tony’s immediately all business, and he straightens up. “Jarvis, put all our labs and individual floors on lockdown. No one without prior authorization gets access. I want satellite data and anything else we can get out of SHIELD.”

 

Blythe goes to the second computer in Tony’s lab, one that she’s used frequently for joint projects, watching as data starts scrolling across the screen. “They closed your backdoor,” she says in surprise. “I didn’t think they knew about it.”

 

“Neither did I,” Tony replies grimly. “Or Fury knew about it and let me get away with it. Could go either way.” He starts typing. “Don’t worry. I have other ways inside.”

 

“Let’s see what we can figure out,” Blythe says, turning her attention to the problem.

 

Things move rather slowly after that. They do find out that Fury has been attacked and some people think he’s dead, but as Tony says, “I’m not going to believe that bastard is dead until I’ve seen his body for myself, and probably not even then.”

 

“Actually, I wouldn’t put it past Fury to come back from the dead,” Clint mutters, and that breaks the tension that remains between them all.

 

They work late, late enough so that Clint calls it quits to take the couch in Blythe’s apartment, leaving the two of them to work on what little information they can glean from SHIELD’s network.

 

“You sure you’re not dating him?” Tony asks.

 

Blythe sighs. “Clint’s a friend. He’s not interested in me like that.”

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Tony sounds almost indignant.

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested in _him_ like that. Why don’t you ask what’s wrong with me?”

 

“Because you’re obviously brilliant,” Tony says, like that explains everything. Maybe it does, in Tony’s mind, but Blythe doesn’t know how to explain to him that being brilliant, as a woman, hasn’t gotten her very far.

 

And really, Blythe has this job based on her intelligence, not her looks, and Tony hasn’t asked anything of her other than to be herself. It’s a novel experience.

 

“Smart enough to know better than to get involved with a guy who isn’t going to be serious,” she says. “When I can’t handle anything casual.”

 

Tony is quiet for a long moment, and Blythe thinks she may have said something wrong, but then Tony says, “It’s cool, if you don’t do casual. Nothing wrong with that.”

 

“I never have been able to,” Blythe confesses, and feels like the words are being torn out of her. “It’s not—it’s not in me.”

 

“Not in me anymore either,” Tony says after a moment. “After Afghanistan, I couldn’t let anybody get close enough to the arc reactor to take it, you know? I made a new rule: nobody I didn’t trust.”

 

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Yeah, I understand that.”

 

They work for a while longer, but get nowhere, and then Blythe goes to her apartment and collapses into bed; she has no idea where Tony is spending his night, but it’s really not any of her business. She isn’t his keeper, after all.

 

The full impact hits the following day, when they’re still working the angles after a few hours of sleep, and the helicarriers crash.

 

“I helped build those,” Tony says indignantly. “I gave them the plans for the repulsor technology.”

 

Blythe has been sifting the internet for information on SHIELD, and she sees immediately when their secrets go online.

 

 _All_ of their secrets—everything they have on the Avengers, every project, every operative, plans for the helicarriers, including Tony’s repulsor technology, _everything_.

 

“Tony,” she says faintly. “It’s out there.”

 

“What’s out there?” he asks, his temper just held in check.

 

“Everything, all of it, everything SHIELD has, all of their secrets,” Blythe replies. “It’s out there on the internet. Someone just dumped all of it.”

 

Tony frowns. “Then let’s figure out how to _undump_ it.”

 

“We can try,” she says, knowing it’s impossible even as the words leave her mouth. Someone will see the information and download as much of it as they can before it disappears. And then, from there, they’ll reupload it, and so on in a vicious, never-ending cycle. Getting something scrubbed from the internet is a little like trying to unspill milk—it can’t be done.

 

Maybe, for certain pieces of information, they could attach a virus that would make it less likely for people to download the files, and maybe the virus would spread, but—

 

“Okay,” Blythe says. “We can’t pull the information down, but we can make it really hard for other people to access it. Not all of them, but the data it would be dangerous for others to have. We can use a Trojan.”

 

Tony lights up. “I like the way you think, Banner. Let’s do it.”

 

They work around the clock for the next two days, locating various files that might be dangerous and attaching a virus that will replicate every time it gets downloaded or uploaded. That includes the plans that Tony had given SHIELD for the helicarrier, identities of SHIELD agents who are deemed most at risk, some other information that might endanger lives.

 

They’re punch drunk from lack of sleep, and that’s when Tony says, “I think Pepper is going to break up with me.”

 

Blythe blinks the sleep out of her eyes. “What?”

 

“She’s going to break up with me,” Tony says. “She thought I’d given up being Iron Man, and I obviously haven’t, and she doesn’t want to come in second anymore. I can’t blame her.”

 

Blythe has no idea what to say in response to that. She’d known that Tony wasn’t going to give up being Iron Man; he _is_ Iron Man.

 

Of course, Blythe can also understand Pepper’s point of view. She spends hours with Tony every day, and Pepper is gone a lot. Blythe can understand why Pepper would want to be Tony’s primary focus when she is home, and she won’t be as long as Tony is Iron Man.

 

And Pepper is wise enough to not issue an ultimatum asking him to choose between her and the suit.

 

“What are you going to do?” she finally asks after the silence has gone on long enough to get weird.

 

“I was kind of hoping you could give me some advice,” Tony admits.

 

Blythe hates this; she hates this _so much_. She’s his friend, but she’s far from being a disinterested party. She’s not sure she _can_ give him advice, and yet she doesn’t know how she can’t either.

 

“Do you still love her?” she asks quietly.

 

The muscle in Tony’s jaw ticks wildly. “Yes.”

 

“Do you want to remain her friend?”

 

“Yes, of course,” he says impatiently.

 

Blythe sighs. “Are you going to give up being Iron Man?”

 

Tony pauses for a long moment. “I thought I could.”

 

“It’s part of you,” Blythe says quietly. “It’s always going to be part of you.”

 

“I guess you’d get that better than most,” Tony admits.

 

Blythe refuses to meet his eyes. “So, be honest with her. Tell her that you’re not giving up on being Iron Man, and she deserves better. Tell her that you love her, and you want her happiness above all else. Make her believe that it’s not her fault, or any lack that she has.”

 

Tony is quiet for a long moment. “Whoever made you feel like you were lacking is a fucking asshole,” he finally says. “And that’s good advice. I don’t know about you, but I think I’m going to get some sleep.”

 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I’m right behind you.”

 

But she’s not, because she doesn’t think she’s going to be able to sleep any time soon.

 

**19.**

 

Tony and Pepper break up a couple of weeks later, and Blythe doesn’t see Tony much after that.

 

She wants to be there for him; he _is_ her friend, but he retreats into the bottle, and Blythe—

 

She can’t be around Tony when he’s drunk. If he’s just drinking, she’s fine. He’s never really been out of control around her, but he also hasn’t come off a breakup with the woman who’s probably the love of his life.

 

Blythe doesn’t want to associate him with her father, and the best way she can avoid doing that is to avoid Tony when he’s drunk and smelling of alcohol.

 

For the most part, that’s easy to do in the lab, because Tony doesn’t come to work when he’s been drinking excessively. After hours, though, it’s a different story.

 

She’s in her apartment one night, about a month after the breakup, reading a book—for once, not something scientific or intellectually enriching, but a straight-up chick lit novel.

 

It’s pure pleasure reading—and she’s not even going to call it a guilty pleasure, because she doesn’t feel guilty in the slightest—but it transports her away from her life.

 

And she really likes her life right now, but there are things she’d rather forget for a while.

 

The knocking on her door startles her. She’s not expecting company, and the only person who ever stops by her place is Clint, and he’s only been by once without calling ahead.

 

Blythe freezes, and the knocking comes again, more insistent this time, and she puts her book face down to save her place and approaches the door cautiously. “Jarvis? Who’s at the door?”

 

“It’s Mr. Stark, doctor,” Jarvis says, and that’s all she needs to know.

 

Maybe she should have asked a few more questions, because the overwhelming smell of hard liquor hits her first, and she’s immediately thrown back to her childhood, to seeing her father come home already drunk and hiding under her bed.

 

“Banner, what’s up?” Stark asks, slurring his words.

 

She feels her breath coming a little quicker as her heart rate speeds up, and she feels the familiar green haze take over as she takes in the threat. “Get out,” she says. “ _Get out_.”

 

“Banner?” Tony asks, a little more soberly. “Blythe?”

 

“ _Get out_!” she shouts, her voice beginning to change. She can’t take the chance that her greener half will see Tony as a threat right now.

 

Tony stumbles back, and Blythe says, “Jarvis, lockdown!”

 

And that’s all she gets out, because she’s changing, and she can’t stop it, some part of her brain cataloging Tony as a threat even though she _knows_ he isn’t.

 

 _This is what I wanted to avoid_ , she thinks as she changes, and tastes regret.

 

When she comes back to herself, her clothing is ripped to shreds, and her apartment is in shambles. There are holes in the walls, but the security held. She’s still in her apartment, anyway, and while there’s some damage to the door, it did its job and kept her inside.

 

She’d wanted to make sure that she had a safe place to transform if the worst happened—if she had a nightmare, or if the Tower came under attack and it wasn’t safe for her to let _her_ out. She could think of a hundred different things that could go wrong, but she hadn’t counted on Tony Stark showing up at her door drunk.

 

Blythe blinks up at the ceiling, feeling like a total idiot. She should have better control than that.

 

“Dr. Banner, Mr. Stark tenders his apology,” Jarvis says. “And Mr. Barton asked me to let you know that he’s outside and available at your earliest convenience.”

 

“What are the chances of him leaving without me seeing him?” Blythe asks.

 

Jarvis pauses. “He says to tell you that he’s willing to stay out in the hallway all night.”

 

She sighs. “Tell him to give me a chance to get dressed.”

 

After a transformation, especially after an unintentional one, her muscles are sore, and her skin feels over-sensitized. Blythe bypasses underwear, deciding that she just can’t be bothered, and pulls on her softest pair of flannel pants and t-shirt. She runs a brush through her hair and then goes to the door.

 

Clint is standing there, and his expression is soft with sympathy. “Fuck, Blythe. Your place is a mess.”

 

She glances over her shoulder, seeing the destruction, and she slumps. “Yeah.”

 

“Aw, doc,” he says. “I’m going to rip Tony a new asshole.”

Blythe takes a deep breath. “It’s not his fault.”

 

“The hell it’s not,” Clint mutters darkly. “I’d be surprised as fuck to find out that he hadn’t hacked all of our SHIELD files, and I know for a fact that your family background was in there. He should know better.”

 

Blythe doesn’t have a reply to that, because she can’t find it in herself to disagree. Then again, _she_ didn’t even know that she’d respond like that.

 

“Come on,” Clint says. “You can’t stay here tonight. I might not be able to manage much, but I can do scrambled eggs and toast anyway.”

 

He actually snags the blanket that had been on the back of her couch when the couch had been in one piece and wraps it around her shoulders. The kindness is nearly her undoing, and she closes her eyes tightly. “Clint.”

 

“Hey, hey,” Clint says. “Can I hug you?”

 

“Yes,” she says definitively, and he does, and he’s warm, and kind, and solid.

 

She feels herself relax slightly, because she’s not expecting anybody to treat her with gentleness after she’d turned green after such a stupid reason.

 

And Clint just holds her until she stops shaking, and her stomach growls, and she laughs shakily. “Sorry.”

 

“Let’s get you fed,” Clint says.

 

The apartment Clint has been staying in occasionally is on the smaller side, and there’s very little on the walls or in the way of decoration. It’s Spartan, but the couch is comfortable, and the small space is quickly filled with the scent of eggs and toast.

 

“Coffee?” Clint asks.

 

Blythe shakes her head. “No. I think I’d still like to sleep tonight.”

 

“You can take my bed,” Clint offers. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

 

“I can’t put you out like that,” she protests.

 

He shrugs. “I can be a gentleman on occasion, no matter what Natasha tells you.”

 

“I know you can be,” Blythe replies. “Thank you for tonight. You helped.”

 

“I know what it’s like to not be in control,” he replies. “And what it’s like to need a friend.”

 

She breathes out. “I guess you would.”

 

~~~~~

 

She sleeps well that night, in spite of staying in a strange bed, comforted by the knowledge that she has a friend close by. The next morning, Clint accompanies her back to her apartment, and she stops dead in the doorway.

 

“Looks like Stark has been here already,” Clint comments.

 

The detritus has been cleared away, broken furniture removed, and the first attempts at patching the holes in the walls have been made. As apologies go, Blythe has to admit that it’s a pretty good one.

 

“I guess so,” Blythe murmurs. “Looks like we won’t have much to do after all.”

 

“Mr. Stark asked me to inform you that he will replace all of your furniture,” Jarvis announces. “And he recommends you take the rest of the day off.”

 

“Good idea,” Clint says blandly. “Although I’d guess that he’s not quite ready to face you yet.”

 

Blythe sighs. “I’d better go and find him then, and let him know there are no hard feelings.”

 

“No hard feelings?” Clint demands. “I know how much you hate transforming!”

 

“I hate it,” Blythe admits. “But at least it was here, where I couldn’t hurt anybody, and now I know it’s safe. Now I know that _I’m_ safe, at least while I’m at home.”

 

Clint sighs. “Okay, you’ve made your point. But I’m still gonna read him the riot act.”

 

Blythe smiles. “I won’t stop you.”

 

“So, you going to be okay for a while?” Clint asks. “I can stay as long as you want me to.”

 

Blythe shakes her head. “No, I’m good. I’m just going to clean up and maybe try to put things to rights. Thanks for last night.”

 

“You’re my friend,” Clint says simply. “Any time.”

 

She takes a long, hot shower and finds clean clothing—soft, well-worn yoga pants and an equally comfortable hoodie. She shoves her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers, and then she says, “Jarvis, I assume Tony is in his lab.”

 

“He is, Dr. Banner. Shall I let him know you’re coming?”

 

“No, I don’t want to give him a chance to run and hide,” she replies wryly.

 

Blythe is a little surprised to arrive at Tony’s lab to find the music playing softly, and she’s pretty sure it’s less metal and more classic rock. “I didn’t know you were a Kansas fan,” she says.

 

Tony stiffens and doesn’t turn to look at her. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t feeling the loud music this morning.”

 

“I didn’t think you got hangovers either.”

 

“Last night was an exception to a lot of rules,” Tony admits hoarsely, and finally turns to look at her, his eyes shadowed with regret. “I’m sorry. You have to know that I would never hurt you.”

 

Blythe gives him a long look. “Never is a long time, and I imagine we’ll be friends long enough that you will. You didn’t hurt me last night, Tony.”

 

“Evidence says otherwise,” Tony snaps, then immediately apologizes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

Blythe hesitates. “Clint said he thought you’d probably read all of our SHIELD files, and that you can guess what happened last night. Do I need to explain?”

 

“Smell is one of the strongest triggers for memories,” Tony says quietly. “And I showed up at your door, unexpected and unannounced, smelling like booze. Your dad was a mean drunk.”

 

“He’d have been mean even without the alcohol,” Blythe replies. “Most of the time, I can handle the smell of alcohol just fine, but last night was different.”

 

She’s not going to make excuses for him, or for herself. She’s not really _angry_ with him, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shitty situation.

 

“It won’t happen again,” Tony promises.

 

“Okay,” Blythe says simply. “Good enough for me.”

 

And as far as she’s concerned, that’s the end of the matter. She knows that she has a safe place to transform, and that’s a level of peace she’d never thought she would have.

 

**20.**

 

There’s a subtle change after that, although Blythe doesn’t think anybody else notices. In fact, _she_ probably wouldn’t notice, but she’s generally fairly attuned to her environment, and sensitive to the emotions of those around her.

 

Tony still has parties after the Avengers come back from a battle, and he still drinks at those parties, but Blythe notices that he nurses his drinks longer. She never sees him drunk after that night, and he never smells of alcohol the way he had when he’d shown up at her door.

 

Sometimes she’ll get a whiff of whiskey if she’s close to him, at least at the parties, but not in the lab, and not in the common areas either.

 

He’s careful with her in a way that he hadn’t been before, and Blythe isn’t sure if she’s glad of that or not. It’s a definite sign that he cares about what happens to her, but Blythe hates feeling like people are treating her like she’s made of blown glass.

 

Well, Blythe is pretty sure she’s not the only one who notices; Clint is watching Tony like a hawk, and when he finally starts to relax around Tony again, Blythe knows that he’s seen the changes, too.

 

And then, a few months later, Tony starts flirting with her. A lot.

 

It’s not like he’s never flirted with her before; he flirts with _everyone_ , pretty much on reflex, and Blythe ignores it. But a few months after SHIELD falls, and Pepper breaks up with Tony, and she has her meltdown, Tony seems to take it up to the next level.

 

The thing is, Blythe has always been terrible about recognizing when someone is actually flirting with her. Betty had called her hilariously oblivious, and Blythe had admitted that she wasn’t wrong about that.

 

So, while there’s a part of Blythe that recognizes Tony’s flirting, she can’t fathom the idea that there’s any real intention behind it, not with her.

 

And, okay, he likes spending time with her, and they work together, but they’re on the same team. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

“So, gorgeous, what do you think?” Tony asks after proposing ideas for how to improve the Avengers’ weapons.

 

Blythe rolls her eyes. “Your ideas are spot on, as always.”

 

“But if you’re talking about exploding arrows versus arrows that disrupt mind control rays, or whatever…” Tony prompts.

 

Blythe shrugs. “Then I’d say Clint would probably appreciate the latter rather than the former.”

 

“What would I appreciate?” Clint asks, strolling into the lab. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?”

 

“What would you be interrupting?” Blythe asks.

 

Tony and Clint share a look that she can’t quite read. “Exploding arrows or arrows that disrupt mind control abilities?” Tony asks.

 

“Can you do that?” Clint asks, apparently distracted from whatever he’d been thinking he’d interrupted.

 

“Theoretically,” Blythe says. “But it’s going to take a little time. The exploding arrows can be done tomorrow.”

 

Clint appears to consider that for a moment. “Okay, then both. Definitely both.”

 

“We’ll work on it,” Blythe replies. “I mean, I get it. I wouldn’t want to…” She trails off, uncertain as to whether she should continue that thought, since it might be viewed as a little insensitive.

 

“Hey, if anybody understands why I wouldn’t want to lose control, it would be you, doc,” Clint says easily.

 

Blythe shrugs that off. “We’ll do what we can to make sure you’re protected. You and the rest of the team. I mean, Tony came pretty close to getting mind-wiped or whatever by Loki.”

 

“Lucky for all of us, I don’t have a heart,” Tony jokes.

 

“Oh, I think we all know that’s a lie,” Blythe says automatically.

 

Clint smirks at her, looking disturbingly knowing. “Either that, or the scepter needs to actually touch skin. Or, you know, something that isn’t the arc reactor.”

 

“Possible,” Blythe mutters, suddenly very sure that she wants to get away from Clint’s all-too-knowing, faintly mocking gaze. “So, um, I have a thing. I’m gonna go do that thing.”

 

“Don’t let me interrupt anything,” Clint says, raising his hands in surrender. “I just wanted to stop in.”

 

“And we are working on your arrows,” Tony says, ushering him out the door. “Great to see you, come back later.”

 

Blythe grimaces as the door to the lab slides shut behind Clint. “Sorry. I made that weird, didn’t I?”

 

“Pretty sure that wasn’t you,” Tony mutters. “Barton was just being a dick.”

 

Blythe’s shoulders hunch. “I should—I have something I have to get done today. So, um, I’m going to go do that.”

 

She rushes out before Tony can say anything to stop her, wondering if _everybody_ knows she has a giant crush on Tony Stark.

 

And she knows that she’s taking his flirtation too seriously, but she can’t help it. If she could just get her traitorous emotions under control, she’d be _fine_.

 

~~~~~

 

Weird or not, Tony doesn’t let up.

 

“If it isn’t the stunning Dr. Banner,” Tony says one morning when he enters her lab. “I need your help on something.”

 

She can feel herself flush under his compliment. “Um, if I can help, I will.”

 

“I need you to take a look at the engine output for the team jet,” Tony replies. “There are economies we could take advantage of.”

 

“I—yeah. Sure.”

 

“And then I’d like you to help me take a second look at some of the data we have on Hydra,” Tony continues.

 

Blythe hesitates. “I can do that.”

 

“Great!” Tony says, clapping her on the shoulder and squeezing. The contact is familiar and just this side of friendly, and Blythe really isn’t sure what to do about it.

 

She stands there, stiffly, uncertainly, until Tony lets his hand drop. “You okay?” he asks.

 

“Fine,” she insists. “I’m just—I’m fine.”

 

Tony searches her face, and he says, “Look, Blythe, you know, after what happened—”

 

“I’m not angry,” Blythe insists. “That’s not—it’s fine. I’m fine. I just—don’t know what you want.”

 

Tony looks disappointed for some reason, and he says, “Is it so hard to believe that I want to spend time with you?”

 

His sincerity is disarming, and Blythe doesn’t know how to tell him that yes, it is hard to believe, because he’s _Tony Stark_ , and she’s just— _her_.

 

She’s pretty sure that saying as much will just put that disappointed expression back on his face, or make it worse. So, instead, she says, “I like spending time with you, too.”

 

Tony beams at her. “Good, then you’ll help?”

 

“Whatever you need,” Blythe agrees.

 

She would do just about anything for Tony Stark, and she’s pretty sure everybody knows it by now.

 

“Okay, there,” Blythe says, pointing at a spot on the map in the wilds of Canada. “From everything I’ve been able to find, Hydra has a training facility there.”

 

Tony frowns. “I think you’re right. Looks like they’re interested in advanced weaponry.”

 

“Sounds like a place that’s begging to get shut down,” Blythe replies with a purely internal sigh.

 

A base this size means that Blythe’s greener half is almost certainly going to be needed, and she still hates transforming. And a big battle also means a big party afterward, since that’s become tradition.

 

And a party means one more opportunity for her to feel awkward and out of place.

 

“Cheer up,” Tony says, patting her on the shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you.”

 

“And how are you going to do that?” Blythe asks, her tone a little sour.

 

Tony smirks at her. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

 

**21.**

 

It takes them a week to prepare for the assault on the base, a week of gathering intel and reviewing satellite data, and making exhaustive plans for the assault.

 

Blythe is involved in the information gathering, but not the planning. She’s _around_ for the planning, because the whole team is, but since she’ll either be on the Quinjet or green, she’s not really _involved_.

 

Most of the time, Blythe doesn’t really feel like she’s part of the team, and this is why: she’s set apart, and her utility isn’t something she welcomes.

 

Sometimes, she wonders what, if anything, the others really get out of her presence. Sure, her greener half can be useful when it comes to alien invasions or Hydra bases—she’s finally come to accept that as fact—but Blythe herself? She’s one big, neurotic mess who could lose control and smash them at any given moment. What does she have to offer that offsets _that_?

 

On the run, it had been different when she’d offered her skills for little remuneration, or when she’d offered to share food or drinking water, or something that people really needed. Here, she feels like a useless appendage, like—maybe an appendix. Good for nothing, but could definitely kill you if something goes wrong.

 

And then, when they’ve planned, and her eyes are gritty, and everybody is looking worn down, but there’s still twelve hours until they can leave, she says, “I’ll make dinner.”

 

“Oh, thank god,” Clint says loudly. “I’m starving.”

 

Steve’s expression is almost pathetically grateful. “Me too.”

 

“I’ll help,” Natasha offers.

 

Tony, though—he’s looking at her speculatively. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

 

She shrugs. “It’s a useful skill for independent living, and it’s usually cheaper to cook than it is to eat out.”

 

Not that she has to worry about that so much these days, although she’s been squirreling away the very cushy salary Stark Industries is paying her. Someday, if she has to go on the run again, she’ll have far more of a cushion than she did in the past.

 

Particularly since she’s learned a thing or two about creating untraceable accounts by now, and Jarvis has been surprisingly helpful on that front.

 

Blythe ends up making tacos, because she can easily triple her usual recipe to feed a crowd—and Steve alone can eat enough to make that necessary—and the rich meat filling soon has everybody crowding into or near the common kitchen.

 

She puts Steve and Natasha to work on the rest of the fillings while she makes a quick salsa fresca and toasts the corn tortillas.

 

Blythe learned to make tacos while she was in the migrant camps, and she’s never had any complaints, so she’s not exactly surprised when Steve consumes a dozen in short order, with Tony and Clint having an impromptu contest for who can eat more. She and Natasha pace themselves.

 

“You are quite the cook, Dr. Banner,” Natasha says as she licks the juice from her thumb. “That was delicious.”

 

Blythe smiles around a bite. “I had a few good teachers along the way.”

 

“Who was that?” Clint asks, finally slowing down after taco number six.

 

She hesitates. “There was a woman named Lupe in the migrant worker camps who kind of took me under her wing for a bit, and a few others in Mexico and South America, a few in India.”

 

Blythe has been helped by a lot of people along the way, people who were kind, who taught her various skills and looked out for her.

 

She’s consistently surprised by others’ kindness, and their depravity, and she gets to see both up close and personal with the Avengers—the kindness of her teammates, the depravity of Hydra and Loki, and other threats.

 

“You should cook more often,” Tony says, his mouth full.

 

Blythe raises her eyebrows. “Are you just saying that because I’m a woman?”

 

“I’m saying that because these tacos are fucking awesome, and I like awesome food,” Tony replies. “Also, you’re hot when you’re cooking.”

 

Blythe can feel her face heat, and she really wishes that Tony would stop flirting with her when he doesn’t mean anything by it. “…thanks,” she says for lack of anything better to say.

 

“Stark is on cleanup duty,” Natasha announces. “Clint can help.”

 

Blythe really isn’t sure if that’s a good idea, but she’s also going to take the opportunity to escape. “I should get some sleep,” she announces. “’night, everybody.”

 

There’s a ragged chorus of “good nights,” and Blythe goes to her apartment and finds a comfortable position on the floor, cross-legged with her hands on her knees. She takes a deep, centering breath and closes her eyes.

 

When they go into battle tomorrow, she’ll be ready, whatever that means.

 

And maybe she has nothing more to offer than her greener half and tacos, but that’s at least _something_.

 

~~~~~

 

The base requires a Code Green, and Blythe responds, because that’s the price of admission. At least now, when she comes back to herself, there’s always someone there with clothing, a high protein bar, and water, usually Natasha.

 

Blythe is pretty sure it’s usually Natasha because they’re both women.

 

This time, though, it’s Tony.

 

“Sorry, but Romanoff was busy interrogating some Hydra goons,” Tony says, holding out a pile of clothing. She’s pretty sure he’s the one that threw a blanket over her.

 

“Thanks,” she says, pulling her clothing on under the cover of the blanket.

 

Tony looks away. “I don’t—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“It’s okay,” she says, and in that moment, it really is. Tony might flirt, but he’s always been respectful.

 

“I just don’t—” Tony stops. “You know, I’m really bad at this.”

 

Blythe frowns. “Bad at what?”

 

Tony gives her a look that she can’t read, and then he laughs. “Never mind. If you haven’t noticed, then I might not be quite as bad as I thought.”

 

She’s not really sure what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all.

 

“You up for the party tonight?” Tony asks.

 

In spite of the transformation, Blythe is actually feeling pretty good, and she nods. “Yeah, I think I’ll make an appearance.”

 

Tony looks far more excited than she’d thought such a response warranted. “Great!”

 

Blythe is pretty sure there’s more going on under the surface than what she can see right now, but she’s always been terrible at this, and she’s tired, and she doesn’t want to think about it too hard.

 

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you there, then,” she says lamely, and it’s only after the words leave her mouth that she realizes it sounds like she’s setting up a date.

 

Blythe knows that she can’t take it back without making a fool of herself, so she offers an awkward smile and leads the way back to the Quinjet, Tony watching her back.

 

At least she _thinks_ he’s watching her back, but she wouldn’t put it past him to be staring at her ass.

 

She doesn’t glance over her shoulder to check.

 

Blythe hunkers down on one of the benches and puts her headphones on. None of the Avengers have been hurt, and Tony had already said that other casualties had been limited as well. It’s the best possible outcome for when they go on one of these missions, but Blythe always likes to decompress after with music, shutting out the rest of the world until she feels mostly like herself again.

 

She heads directly to her apartment and takes a long, hot shower, which eases some of the aches in her shoulders and back.

 

After what she’d said to Tony, after the sort of tentative sense that this might be—not a date, but perhaps a proto-date—she wants to at least try to look nice. She doesn’t usually make much of an effort, just enough not to stick out too much, but she hasn’t had many other opportunities to dress up.

 

Now, she looks through her closet and despairs. She looks longingly at the saris she still has, mostly because she’d felt comfortable in them, and knew they flattered her. With a frown, she opts for a pair of black pants and a purple sweater.

 

She’d worn it before to have dinner with Clint, and it’s an outfit that Tony had assumed meant she was going on a date, so hopefully it will do.

 

The party is in full swing by the time she emerges from her apartment, and she grabs a drink and sort of drifts around the room. Clint and Natasha are hanging out, and Blythe never knows whether it’s okay to interrupt them or not. Steve is talking to a group of vets that look like they’re WWII era, probably Tony’s idea of putting him at ease.

 

Tony is working the room, and right now he seems to be deep in conversation with Maria Hill, who had started working for SI after the fall of SHIELD. And she’s tired and aching, and at that moment, Blythe just wants to go to bed, no matter what she told Tony.

 

She finds a seat in an out of the way place and sips her drink, and counts down the minutes until she can conceivably leave and still be able to claim to have made an appearance.

 

“Cheer up, it’s not so bad,” Natasha says, sitting next to her, apparently having decided to abandon Clint.

 

“What isn’t so bad?” Blythe mutters.

 

Natasha frowns. “You saved a lot of lives today.”

 

Blythe really doesn’t want to get into the relative merits of calling a Code Green. It turned out okay _this_ time. She only hurt the bad guys _this_ time.

 

Next time, things might be different.

 

She can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment because she’d thought Tony wanted her here, but he hasn’t even glanced at her once.

 

“I know it could have been a lot worse,” Blythe says. She’s more comfortable with Natasha these days, but she’s not sure that anybody understands what it’s like to have a monster living under your skin.

 

Her eyes are drawn back to Tony, who’s leaning against the bar next to Maria Hill. Blythe is pretty sure that Maria isn’t picking up what he’s putting down, but at the same time, it’s another reminder that Tony could do a lot better.

 

Maria Hill is smart, gorgeous, driven, and better yet, _doesn’t_ turn into an enormous green rage monster.

 

Natasha’s gaze sharpens when she sees what Blythe is looking at. “Stark isn’t going to get anywhere with her.”

 

“Yeah, I know that,” Blythe replies automatically, then quickly covers. “Not that it matters.”

 

Natasha sighs. “You’re really bad at this, aren’t you?”

 

“Bad at what?” Blythe asks defensively. “Parties?”

 

Natasha actually rolls her eyes. “No, knowing when someone is actually interested in you. The last time I saw Tony Stark this interested in someone it was Pepper.”

 

Blythe makes an automatic denial. “No, I mean, Ms. Potts is totally different from me.”

 

“So?” Natasha asks archly. “Although I would argue otherwise. You’re both intelligent and attractive, and you’re also very moral, each in your own ways.”

 

Blythe blinks. “What?”

 

Natasha gives her a look up and down. “In spite of your unfortunate taste in clothing.”

 

She knows she’s blushing. “Natasha…”

 

“Look, I know a very easy way to prove I’m right, and if I am, you’ll let me take you shopping for something that will actually do you some favors,” Natasha says.

 

Blythe hesitates. “Why would you want to?”

 

“Because your clothing is an offense to the eyes, and you looked much better in saris,” Natasha says bluntly. “Also, I’m very tired of watching you two moon over each other. Enough is enough.”

 

Blythe doesn’t think Natasha is right, but she’s sort of curious. “What do I get if I win?”

 

“I will still take you shopping, and I will teach you to seduce Tony Stark so that he wants no one but you,” Natasha offers.

 

Blythe shakes her head. “I don’t want to push things.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes again. “Fine. Then if you win, which you will not, you can choose your reward.”

 

Blythe has no idea what she’d request, if anything, but she’s curious as to what action Natasha thinks will prove that Tony is actually interested. “Okay, a favor to be called in later. What do I do?”

 

“Leave,” Natasha says succinctly. “Go to the lab, or your apartment, or wherever you want to go, I don’t care. Just tell me where you’re going, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

 

The lab, Blythe thinks, because that’s her comfort zone, and whatever Tony Stark wants or doesn’t want, they’ve always connected over science. If he finds her in the lab and he doesn’t want anything else, they can talk about their projects, something neutral.

 

Blythe glances down at her slacks and sweater, and Natasha might have a point. So, she knows what she’ll choose, even if Natasha happens to be wrong.

 

She hasn’t had anybody to go shopping with since Betty, and Blythe really wouldn’t mind the assist.

 

“The lab,” Blythe replies. “And either way, you take me shopping.”

 

Natasha smiles like the cat that’s eaten the canary. “Good. Get out of here.”

 

Blythe goes, and tries to concentrate on her most recent project involving more efficient uses of biofuels, but it’s a lost cause. She’s too worked up to concentrate, which _never_ happens.

 

She’s staring at an equation without really seeing it, her mind whirling. She’s not sure what she even _wants_ to happen at this point.

 

“Hey, you left the party early.”

 

Blythe turns to look at Tony when he announces his presence, even though she’d heard the door opening. He’s giving her a look that Blythe has a hard time reading.

 

She shrugs. “I’m a little tired.”

 

“You feeling okay?” Tony asks, moving a little closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. The heat from his hand goes right through her sweater, soaking into her sore muscles. He squeezes, and she lets out an involuntary groan. “Sore?”

 

“Yeah, a little,” she admits.

 

“Turn around,” he orders and begins to knead her shoulders.

 

Blythe lets her head drop forward. She has no idea what he’s doing, or what he wants, or even _why_ he’s doing this, but she really doesn’t care. His hands feel way too good.

 

His thumbs find knots she didn’t know were there, and she groans. “Please don’t stop.”

 

“I have no intention of stopping,” he replies. “You know, I could probably do a better job if you were naked.”

 

She stiffens. “What?”

 

“I wasn’t sure until Romanoff basically told me I should put everyone out of their misery and tell you how I feel already,” he says.

 

“How you feel?” she asks blankly.

 

He turns her around, and she swallows hard at the warmth she sees in his eyes. He cups her cheek gently. “Now would be the time to tell me to stop.”

 

“Don’t stop,” Blythe says.

 

He leans in slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind, and then his lips are on hers. He tastes like mint, and his beard prickles her skin, and his palm is rough and callused.

 

Blythe doesn’t want the kiss to end. His hands thread through her hair, holding her close, deepening the kiss. It’s everything she could have wanted.

 

“So, is that a yes to getting naked?” Tony asks hopefully. “I don’t want to rush you, but I’ve been hoping you would actually respond for months now.”

 

Blythe smiles. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

 

“Dead serious,” Tony replies. “Is this a yes?”

 

“I’ve been interested in you for years,” Blythe admits.

  
Tony kisses her again. “Well, then, it looks like we’ve got some time to make up for.”

 

Of course, she balks at his bedroom door. It’s been so _fucking long_ , and she’s not sure if she can even do this.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, his hands firm on her shoulders, but he doesn’t push her. He just rests his hands there. “I’m sensing some hesitation, and I’m not interested in anything that’s not 100% enthusiastic consent, so no pressure.”

 

Blythe doesn’t know what to say about that. “Um.”

 

“Massage is still on the table,” Tony offers. “Just a massage, and if you fall asleep here, I won’t hold it against you.”

 

She has to trust him, is the thing. She has to trust that Tony means what he says, that he’s not going to pressure her, and if she doesn’t trust him for that much, she certainly can’t trust him not to push her in the future.

 

“Yes, to the massage,” she says. “I just—it’s been a long time.”

 

“So, we ease into things,” Tony says easily. “No problem.”

 

He turns her slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind, and then he kisses her carefully, gently, his grip on her shoulders firm but not confining. Slowly, she begins to relax, and Tony’s hands drift down her arms and then to her hips.

 

His hands slip under her sweater to her back, and he breaks off the kiss long enough to ask, “Is this okay?”

 

“It’s good,” she manages.

 

He nudges her back toward the bed. “Can I take your sweater off?”

 

Blythe hesitates, and then says, “Yes.”

 

He skims her sweater off over her head. “Still want that massage?”

 

The idea of someone touching her when it’s been so long… “If you don’t mind.”

 

Tony bends his head and kisses her bare shoulder. “I get my hands all over you. Why would I mind?”

 

She lays facedown on the bed, and feels his fingers slip under her bra. “Is this okay?”

 

“Yeah, yes,” she says, shivering a bit at his callused fingers on her skin.

 

He digs into her shoulders with his thumbs, and she sighs with pleasure. She’s known for a while that Tony is good with his hands, but she had no idea _how_ good.

 

The heels of his hands press into the tight muscles of her lower back, and he runs his knuckles up either side of her spine. “Damn, Banner, you’re one giant knot.”

 

“Massages aren’t exactly something I’m in the position to seek out,” she mutters against the mattress.

 

“Well, never fear, I can change that,” Tony replies, and starts working on her shoulders. “Any time you want a massage, I’m happy to provide one.”

 

“Why?” she asks.

 

Tony is quiet. “Look, I get that you think you’re not worthy or some shit like that, but I’ve been fascinated with you ever since I read your paper on anti-electron collisions. You were R. B. Banner, woman of mystery.”

 

“Not so mysterious,” she objects.

 

“No one even really had a bead on your name,” Tony points out. “SHIELD just called you Banner. They had no idea what made you tick.”

 

She frowns. “And you’ve figured it out?”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Tony replies. “But I’m looking forward to learning all I can.” He stretches out next to her, brushing her hair aside to kiss her neck. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Good,” she admits.

 

He runs a hand down her spine. “You want to change into something a little more comfortable? I have a shirt you can borrow.”

 

“You really don’t mind?”

 

“We can go at your pace,” Tony assures her. “Just tell me one thing.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Tell me that you want me.”

 

She props herself up on her elbows. “I’ve wanted you for years. It’s one of the reasons I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

 

Tony kisses her, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Believe it. Can I ask you a question? It’s something I’ve been curious about for a while.”

 

“Sure,” she replies, completely relaxed now, and ready to answer just about any question.

 

“Why go by your middle name?” Tony asks. “Why Blythe?”

 

She hesitates, and then says, “It’s the name my mom gave me; it’s what she wanted for me.”

 

“It suits you,” Tony says.

 

And Blythe shakes her head, although she’s smiling. “No, it doesn’t, but I think I’m growing into it.”


End file.
